


Past, Present & Future

by yalublyutebya



Series: Past, Present and Future Universe [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bromance, Character Death, Gen, Genderswap, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Romance, Slash, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-26
Updated: 2013-03-18
Packaged: 2017-11-19 14:41:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 59,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/574363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yalublyutebya/pseuds/yalublyutebya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock returns after three years to find that things have changed in ways he could never predict. There's a stranger living in 221b and no-one's life is quite the same for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My unending thanks go to my beta, lady_t_220. Without her, this story would have been lifeless, tropey and have far too much repetition.

_July 2014_

"Are you sure about this?" Mycroft asks, disinterested gaze focused on the partition between them and the driver. "A great deal has changed while you've been away."

Sherlock grinds his teeth and resolutely does not say, _I just want to go home_. He's not prepared to display that kind of sentimentality (weakness) in front of his brother. Nor does he ask what has changed. For three years he has avoided asking about any part of his life from before, and for three years Mycroft has mercifully kept his silence.

"Are you done?" Sherlock snaps, eyes already fixed on the black door of 221b Baker Street.

 Silence greets him and, taking it as an affirmative, Sherlock reaches for the door.

 "Be careful, brother," Mycroft says quietly and Sherlock pauses for just a second, before opening the door and stepping out on to the pavement. He doesn't even glance back as the car pulls away from the kerb; his focus is entirely on the heavy wooden door only a few feet in front of him.

 Several passers-by skirt around him, a few giving him strange looks, before Sherlock finally forces himself forward and pulls from his coat pocket a key he hasn't used for three years - and even then only when neither John nor Mrs. Hudson were around. Now, he has deliberately timed his visit to coincide with Mrs. Hudson's weekly tea-and-cake with a friend in Hammersmith. It's not that he doesn't want to see her, even though he can predict the scolding he will get. No, there is only one person he wants to see right now.

 The key slides effortlessly into the lock and, with a flick of the wrist, the door swings open. He steps inside and closes the door behind him, his gaze already skipping to the seventeen steps that seperate him from his old flat. For the first time, he feels cold tendrils of doubt twisting their way through his chest; there are simply too many possibilities when it comes to John Watson.

 Sherlock takes a deep breath, shakes off his cowardice with annoyance, and makes for the stairs.

 At the top, he is greeted by the two closed doors to the flat. He passes the one to the kitchen, only to pause as he hears someone - a man - humming under his breath, the noise accompanied by the unmistakable sounds of someone making tea. He can't remember if he's ever heard John hum, and the warm nostalgia that had been creeping up on him dissolves into a longing so painful he can't stay still any more.

 He takes two long strides and finally reaches the main door. He stops, pressing his hand to the wood, absorbed in the muffled noise of someone walking into the living room. It's now or never, he soon realises; either he pushes open this door and faces whatever John wants to throw at him - anger? happiness? indifference? - or he turns away, leaves, and continues to be, for all intents and purposes, dead.

 He takes hold of the handle, lets out a shaky breath - absurd, that this is the most nervous he's been in his life - and pushes.

 Nothing happens. The door doesn't move at all. He tries again, and when that doesn't work he steps back to examine the door.

 He spots the new keyhole instantly and berates himself for missing it before, for being blinded by emotion. It's undoubtedly a standard five-lever mortice deadlock, nothing special, but it sits uncomfortably with his memories of home. He can't remember them ever locking the door before, doesn't even remember if the door had a lock, although it surely must have.

 There is only one way forward and, after only a brief moment of internal struggle, Sherlock raises his hand and knocks.

 He listens intently as the lone occupant evidently startles, puts down his tea (and the paper, by the sounds of it) and walks over to the door. A moment's hesitation from the other side (smoothing down his clothes, trying to look presentable), and then the door opens - to reveal a stranger.

 The man standing with one hand on the door, another on the frame (wary, cautious), is about John's height, but a bit younger, slightly slimmer, and with darker hair.

 "Hello?" he says, and there is an echo of something in his tone - confidence, authority, power. Sherlock looks him over again and it's obvious, really - _policeman._

 Sherlock frowns, clears his throat, and speaks up. "Is John here?"

John hasn't moved house - Mycroft would've known - and Sherlock wonders if this is what Mycroft meant by changes. A new flatmate; a policeman, no less.

 The policeman gives Sherlock a once-over and then freezes, his eyes suddenly bright with recognition (Sherlock forgets, sometimes, that he has probably become infamous among London's finest). A moment later, those eyes harden, darken, and before Sherlock can process it, he is reeling back from a punch to the face.

 Blood trickles across his upper lip and he pinches his fingers around the bridge of his nose to stem the flow. It's not broken, thankfully, and he manages to raise his head, waiting for another blow.

 The policeman stares at him for a very long time, saying nothing, and then gives a weary sigh. "You'd better come in. Mrs. Hudson won't be happy if you bleed all over her hallway."

 The policeman retreats into the flat, leaving Sherlock to follow after a short pause, bewildered. The man appears from the kitchen with a cloth just as Sherlock steps into the room, and he stops to regard Sherlock for a moment before handing it over.

"Sorry about that," he says easily. "You can press charges if you like, but I don't think you'd have much luck getting them to stick."

 The man wanders off towards the sofa, scooping his cup up from the coffee table next to it and taking a drink. Sherlock presses the cloth to his nose - the bleeding has almost stopped already - and, with one eye on the other man, he finally takes in the room and all the changes that three years have wrought upon it. The furniture is much the same, and Mrs. Hudson's decor looks exactly as it did the last time he saw it, although slightly more tired. He can see traces of John everywhere - slippers kicked off by the armchair, newspaper abandoned on the sidetable (he lost track of time and was almost late for work this morning) - and it warms something inside him.

 There is, however, no trace of Sherlock left; his books no longer sit in the bookcase, the kitchen table is empty and clean, the walls bear no sign of bullets or smoke damage. He has been wiped from 221b, as if he was never here, his presence a mere blip in the flat's history. Except then Sherlock sees it - right at the far end of the mantelpiece, almost completely obscured by a stack of letters, there is a small, framed picture. It's Sherlock, wearing that ridiculous hat. It's a familiar picture - it was splashed all over the papers for nearly a month after his supposed death - and Sherlock is not ignorant of the meaning of it being there. Sentiment. John has moved on with his life, but he still has a reminder of their time together sitting right there in front of him.

 Sherlock finally turns back to John's flatmate, who has taken a seat on the sofa and is sipping his drink slowly as he watches Sherlock.

 "John should be home soon. You're welcome to wait."

 "Thank you," Sherlock gets out quietly. He isn't sure what to make of this policeman; if his attack was an expression of anger at Sherlock's deception of his fellow officers, Sherlock would have expected a lot more invective by now. Instead, he just sits there, his bright gaze fixed on Sherlock.

 "John's told me all about you," the man says, breaking the silence once more.

 "And I'm sure your colleagues at the Yard have told their share of stories," Sherlock replies a little bitterly. Moriarty's plan really was infuriatingly, wonderfully, clever.

 "How did you know I was a police officer?" the man asks, not angry, simply curious.

 "Obvious," Sherlock says with a wave of his hand and no further explanation. He doesn't have the patience or the energy to play nice with John's flatmate.

 The man huffs out a laugh, but then he turns serious. "Jesus, I don't know what John's going to do when he sees you."

 Sherlock scowls a little at the familiarity with which this stranger says John's name, but manages to answer in an even tone: "I imagine he'll do the the same as you did."

 The man smiles and his eyes flick to Sherlock's bloodied nose. "Well, you probably deserve it, don't you think?"

 Sherlock clenches his jaw but says nothing. The man waits for a moment, and then gets to his feet once more.

 "Would you like some tea? Coffee?"

 Sherlock hesitates for just a moment - it's been a while since he's been in England and he's grown unused to this ingrained civility and the need to provide guests with a hot drink.

 "Coffee, please. Black, two sugars."

 John's flatmate moves round Sherlock to go through to the kitchen and Sherlock lingers awkwardly in the middle of the room.

 "You can sit down, you know," the other man calls, turning to look at him.

 After a moment of hesitation, Sherlock drops into John's favourite armchair and closes his eyes. He fancies he can smell traces of John and his stomach warms with the scent-memory. He doesn't know how much longer he can bear to wait, the anticipation (dread? concern?) making him uneasy.

His eyes snap open a minute later when John's flatmate looms over him with a mug in hand. Sherlock takes it with a mumbled 'thank you' and the policeman returns to his seat on the sofa.

 "You alright?" he asks. "You look a bit peaky."

"I'm fine," Sherlock replies tautly.

 A slightly awkward silence falls over them as they each sip their drinks, but it is broken only a few minutes later by the sound of the downstairs door opening and shutting. Sherlock freezes, his heart in his throat, and the policeman's eyes flick to his as he gets to his feet.

 "Stay there," he tells Sherlock as footsteps sound on the stairs. He disappears out into the hall and then, finally, Sherlock hears that familiar voice 

"Hello?" John says with a laugh. "Is this a new thing we're doing now? Greeting each other halfway up the stairs?"

 "John," the other man says seriously, and Sherlock can almost see the smile disappear from John's face in his mind.

 "What is it?" John asks, worry already spilling into his voice.

"There's... There's someone here to see you."

A pause, and then Sherlock can hear John approaching and he really should get up, get out of this chair, and face his old friend - his only friend - like a man.

"If it's Mycroft bloody Holmes again then he can go shove his-" John's footsteps halt just inside the door, his voice choked off into a sound of complete disbelief.

 Sherlock finally, slowly, rises to his feet and turns to face John. Their eyes meet and Sherlock has to swallow hard before he can talk.

 "Hello, John."

 "Oh God," John breathes. His flatmate hovers behind him, looking prepared to catch him - or perhaps restrain him.

 After a long moment, John takes a decisive step forward and Sherlock braces himself as John crosses the room.

 "You bastard," John gets out when he's about a foot away, but the punch that Sherlock is waiting for never comes. Instead, he finds himself tugged into a tight embrace. "You complete bastard.

It takes Sherlock a worryingly long time to register what is happening, and when he glances up, he can see that John's flatmate is just as shocked as he is. John's arms are tight around his middle and Sherlock finally has the presence of mind to (awkwardly) return the embrace.

"Oh God," John whispers, his head pressed to Sherlock's shoulder. "You're alive. You're alive." All Sherlock can think about is the fact that they have never been this close. 

Before Sherlock can fully process everything that is running through his head, John pulls back, his eyes watery but a smile on his face. He grips Sherlock by the arms, his fingers digging into the fabric of Sherlock's jacket as if to prove to himself that Sherlock is real

"I should punch you," John says, but there is no real anger in his tone. His eyes track over Sherlock's features and his gaze abruptly stops on Sherlock's nose.

"Your friend beat you to it," Sherlock says quietly, eyes flicking to John's flatmate. 

"My-" John cuts himself off and turns towards the policeman, who gives a shrug that is not quite apologetic. John smiles and his flatmate walks forward to join them. 

"We didn't actually get round to introductions," the man says, addressing Sherlock. 

"You punched him in the face, but you didn't get round to introductions?" John gets out, the smile on his face warm and affectionate.

 The man shrugs again and holds out his hand to Sherlock, at the same time as his other hand settles comfortably on John's lower back. "Marcus Morstan," he says pleasantly.

"My boyfriend," John adds a beat later.

 Sherlock shakes Marcus's hand automatically but his eyes are fixed on John. They share a moment of silent communication.

_You never said._

_You never asked_. 

Sherlock is thrown back in time to that first night, at Angelo's, when he had been so sure John was testing the waters, but then John had denied it and had proceeded, over the next few weeks, to be so blatantly heterosexual that Sherlock had accepted it as a momentary lapse in his skill at reading people. 

Marcus - John's _boyfriend_ \- withdraws his hand from Sherlock's, jerking him from his daze, and smiles at John. "I'll put the kettle on again, I suppose. You two have a lot of catching up to do." 

John nods, leaning almost imperceptibly into the other man's touch, and Marcus retreats to the kitchen. John turns his attention back to Sherlock, something like a challenge in his eyes before he blinks it away. 

"You have got a lot of explaining to do," he says sternly, pointing to the nearest armchair. "Sit. 

John takes the seat opposite as Sherlock sits and it's very almost like old times. John leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, his eyes softening as they meet Sherlock's. 

"Talk."

Sherlock is tempted - briefly - to resist out of sheer obstinacy, but then he really looks at John and the words spill out before he can stop them. 

"I'm sorry." 

John lets out a huff of breath and sits back in his chair. "That's a good start," he says, a smile just tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

Marcus reappears, placing a cup of tea down on the table beside John, one hand settling on John's shoulder. "I'm going to pop out," he says as John looks up at him. "Leave you to it." 

"Thank you," John says quietly.

 "And if you need help hiding the body later..." Marcus says with a teasing smile and a glance in Sherlock's direction 

John laughs. "I don't think that will be necessary."

"Alright then." Marcus nods. "I'll see you later." 

John's gaze follows him across the room and stays there until the door closes behind him, when his eyes move back to Sherlock. 

"So," John starts with false brevity. "You're alive." 

"And you're gay," Sherlock counters. 

"Bi, actually," John corrects easily, a man long since comfortable with his sexuality, and Sherlock wonders how the hell he missed it. "And anyway, that's not the point." 

"What is the point then?" Sherlock asks in mock ignorance. Now that it's just the two of them - and John hasn't started shouting - he feels some of the tension draining out of his shoulders.

"God, you don't change, do you?" John laughs, giving Sherlock a look filled with warmth. 

There are so many things Sherlock could tell him right now - about the ways he has changed, the ways he was forced to change because of the constant, pressing drive to survive at any cost. He doesn't though.

 "I've missed you," John says awkwardly after a moment.

 The words are right there on the tip of his tongue, but Sherlock can not get them out. He tries and fails, and the silence stretches out between them.

 "Will you please say something?" John says eventually, a hint of anger colouring his voice.

"What?" Sherlock asks, his voice coming out rough. 

"Anything," John says desperately. "You were dead, Sherlock. I need to know what the hell happened. I... I saw you fall. I went to your fucking funeral. I've been to your grave a hundred times." 

"With your boyfriend?" Sherlock doesn't know where the question comes from, but it stops John short and prompts a frown. 

"It really bothers you?" 

"It doesn't bother me," he says, not quite the truth, but not quite a lie either. 

John rubs a hand over his face, a familiar gesture of exasperation, and Sherlock finally finds the words he needs. 

"I had to jump."

 John's hand drops and he looks up, his expression open, waiting. 

"There were snipers," he starts in a tight voice. "Three of them. For the three people I... cared about the most. 

John looks horrified, but not disbelieving, and so Sherlock pushes on through his reticence to explain why and how and where.

There are still omissions in his story, though, even for John. He doesn't, for example, tell John how quickly he grew to miss him, how he had still talked to him for weeks after as if he was in the same room; how he sometimes woke in the morning with the phantom sounds of someone making tea ringing in his ears. He also doesn't tell John that it took only a few months to realise that he was in love - for the first time in years, and how on earth had he missed the slide through fondness, affection, attraction, desire and into love? - and that it was hopeless. He sketches out his story in plain fact, and never once talks about how he felt, all those long months when he was alone and miserable and pining for home, for John.

*

 An hour passes, and another, and in no time at all Marcus returns to 221b, looking between John and Sherlock speculatively once he has closed the door behind him.

 "Everything alright?"

 "Fine," John reassures him with a smile.

 "I bought dinner," Marcus says, indicating the carrier bag in his hand. "I've got to get ready in a bit so I'm going to have mine now. You can reheat the rest of it later if you're not hungry yet."

 "Shit, I forgot you're on nights," John says.

 "It's fine," Marcus answers with a laugh. "I think it's probably forgiveable, given the circumstances." He glances at Sherlock, but there is nothing mean in his expression.

 "Do you still refuse to eat?" John asks, turning to Sherlock with a hint of a smile. "If not, I'm sure we could spare some for you. Unless you've got somewhere to be?"

 Sherlock thinks of the people he still has to see - namely Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson, maybe Molly too - and shakes his head. There's nowhere he'd rather be, even if he does have to share John with his boyfriend.

 "Great," Marcus announces, and makes his way through to the kitchen. With a quick look at Sherlock, John rises to his feet and follows him. Sherlock has his back to the kitchen, but he can hear the low murmur of their voices, if not the words themselves.

 "Sherlock?" John calls suddenly, and Sherlock gets up and joins them in the kitchen.

John is setting plates and cutlery on the table whilst Marcus opens up the different tubs and places them on the table. They move around each other so comfortably, so easily, that it makes his stomach clench, but he pastes on a smile as he sits down. John gives him an odd look, almost as if he can tell Sherlock is faking it, but he says nothing.

John and Marcus sit down opposite him, pressed close together. It's partly out of necessity in the small kitchen, but Sherlock thinks it might also be a deliberate choice on John's part, since he obviously thinks Sherlock is struggling with this new revelation about his sexuality (he is struggling, but not for the reasons John thinks).

 Despite the way it makes his chest ache, Sherlock can't help but admit, as dinner goes on, that John and Marcus seem to make a very good couple. They _look_ right together, as unscpecific a concept as that is, but it's not just a matter of looks; they laugh and they tease and they joke and sometimes they get serious, but whatever turn the conversation takes, they are perfectly in sync. Marcus is intelligent and witty and it makes John smile at him with such warmth that Sherlock feels, at times, like an intruder.

 Now that he is starting to get his head around the idea, Sherlock looks at them as he would any other couple, his eyes taking in all the little clues in expressions and gestures and a number of other signs around the flat, and he comes to one slightly devastating conclusion: this is serious. They're living together, for starters, but it's more than that - that could have been mere convenience. It's the cups set on the worktop (side by side), it's John's smiles, it's the picture of them on the bookcase that Sherlock somehow missed before. It's two lives so completely entwined you can't see the joins. For a moment, he can barely breathe through the tightness in his chest.

 "Sherlock?" John calls, drawing his attention back to the table. "I said, where are you staying?"

 "With Mycroft," Sherlock says with a frown, and John laughs briefly, before cutting himself off.

 "So he knows then?" John asks, then seems to realise how obvious his question is. "I mean, he knew? Before now?"

 Sherlock knows what the right answer is in this situation, but the right answer is a lie and for some reason he can't bear to speak it. "Yes."

 He sees John clench his hands into tight balls, and Marcus lays a calming hand on his leg - evident even with the table obstructing Sherlock's view.

 "Your brother's a bit of a dick," Marcus ventures after a pause, and John laughs.

"You don't need to tell him that," John tells him. "I'm sure he'd be the first to say it, and much worse." John fixes his bright gaze on Sherlock, something hard flickering in his eyes for a moment as he clenches his jaw. "Unless the last three years have affected a reconciliation?"

 "What do you think?" Sherlock says pointedly.

The hardness disappears - somehow he has made it better - and John smiles and sits back in his chair, absentmindedly laying his hand over Marcus', which still sits on his leg.

 Marcus checks his watch and frowns. "I really should go get ready."

 "Go on, I'll tidy this lot up."

 "Leave the noodles, I might have them in the morning."

 John rolls his eyes, but doesn't protest, putting the lid back on the noodles and leaning over to put them on the side next to the microwave. Marcus stands and retreats towards the bedroom - Sherlock's old bedroom. Sherlock really hopes they've changed the bed because the image of the two of them entwined on his old bed is almost too much to take.

 John busies himself clearing the table and Sherlock watches him, both of them silent. Marcus returns a few minutes later in smart trousers and a shirt. Plain-clothes policeman, then, working in CID. He grabs his keys from the side, as well as his phone, and then he and John share a look. John glances at Sherlock, then back to Marcus, and by some mutual understanding they step out into the living room, out of Sherlock's view.

"You sure you're alright?" he hears Marcus ask, keeping his voice low but not quite low enough.

"I'm okay. Honestly," John murmurs.

 "If you need me, give me a call, alright?"

 "I'll be fine," John says, a smile warming his voice. "I'm a big boy."

 Marcus laughs and then Sherlock hears the sound of them kissing, before Marcus says goodbye and the sound of his footsteps echo down the stairs. John waits for a moment, and then returns to the kitchen, to Sherlock. He sits down opposite Sherlock again, regarding him intently.

"You seem.... different," John says after a pause. "I've never seen you pretending to be nice for such an extended period of time."

 Sherlock arches an eyebrow in mild surprise. "I wasn't pretending."

 John gives him a disbeliving look and Sherlock stares at the worktop over his shoulder. "He's obviously important to you."

 "And since when did that matter to you?" John says glibly, but he seems to regret it a moment later - judging by the heavy silence - and when Sherlock meets his gaze, he can practically hear his own words echoing in his mind. _Snipers. Three of them. For the three people I cared about the most._

John blinks and looks away. Sherlock doesn't know what compels him to do so, but he asks, or rather states: "You've been together quite a while."

"That's an obvious deduction," John counters, a smile tugging at his lips.

 "I'm a little rusty."

John laughs and leans back in his chair, relaxed once more. "Go on then. What else?"

"He's a policeman. A very good one. Just got promoted."

 "The new suit?" John guesses, his smile growing wider.

 "And the half-empty bottle of champagne," Sherlock says, nodding towards its resting-place on the worktop.

 "What about me?" John asks, a challenge.

"You've got a job now - a proper one - in an emergency clinic. It pays well, and you enjoy it."

 "You could've found that out from Mycroft," John teases.

Sherlock hesitates for a moment, but then continues with his next observation. "A patient flirted with you today. A woman. You played along because she was being unhelpful, but you still feel guilty."

 "And how did you know that?"

 "Slight hint of women's perfume, remnants of a lipstick stain on your cheek - you've tried to wipe it off but missed a bit."

 "How do you know I feel guilty?" John counters, but he looks impressed.

 "Because you're John Watson," Sherlock replies, and John laughs.

 "Brilliant."

 Sherlock flushes with warmth and clears his throat awkwardly. He flicks a look up at John but then feigns disinterest as he looks away. He'd forgotten just how much he's missed their easy camaraderie.

"Tell me... Tell me about you. About what you've been doing," Sherlock says.

 "You mean, apart from mourning my best friend."

John's tone is light but when Sherlock dares to meet his eyes, there is a sombreness there that he wishes he could wipe away.

 "Apart from that," Sherlock murmurs, holding his gaze.

 "You mean, you can't just deduce it all?"

 "Not enough to fill three years," Sherlock says seriously.

 "And whose fault is that?" John returns, before turning away and rubbing his hand over his face. "God, this is... I still can't get my head around it."

 "And yet you seem to be taking it very well."

 John glances at him and then fixes his gaze on the table, letting out a sigh. "I'd be lying if I said I hadn't thought about it before. A small part of me still hoped it was just...a trick. A magic trick. But it's hard to sustain a delusion like that for three years."

 Silence falls over them and Sherlock has no idea what to say. John seems lost as well and he opens his mouth to speak, and then gives up again several times before he finally meets Sherlock's eyes.

 "I'm glad you're alive... even though I hate you a little bit for it right now."

 John's lips twitch into a barely-there smile and Sherlock returns it weakly. It's too soon to think about forgiveness, but he thinks he might at least have gained John's understanding - and for now that's enough.


	2. Chapter 2

_October 2011_

John doesn't know why he keeps coming to this pub. The beer is only just about passable, whenever the football's on it's full of loud, obnoxious drunks, and the rest of the time its only customers are sad, old men. John feels a bit like a sad, old man, though, so perhaps it's just his kind of place. That, and it's only a five minute walk from Baker Street.

Chelsea are playing Arsenal tonight and the pub is packed. John is sat at the end of the bar by the toilets and gets elbowed every time someone tries to wriggle their way through the crowd. Every time it happens, he scowls into his drink, but says nothing. He should probably move somewhere else but, despite the regular flow of people towards the toilets, this is about the quietest seat in the whole place.

Someone shoves into John - for about the twentieth time that evening - just as he's about to take a sip of his drink, and it sloshes over his hand and partly over his shirt.

"Hey!" he protests, putting his glass down and holding the wet spot of his shirt away from his skin as he swivels on the stool.

"Shit, sorry," the man who has bumped into him says, glancing back at the crowd. "It's a madhouse in here."

The man seems as out of place in here as John, with his suit and tie. He looks a little bit like a city boy, although there's a distinct lack of smugness in his expression, and when John takes a second look, his inner Sherlock can't help but point out that the suit is a cheap, off-the-rack one.

"It's fine," John says with a grimace.

"Sorry about that," the man says, gesturing towards John's shirt.

"It'll dry."

The stranger grimaces and, a second later, he gets shoved almost into John's lap by a burly looking Arsenal fan on his way to the loo. John helps him to straighten up again and they both scowl at the burly man's back. 

"Bloody hell," the stranger says. "Here, let me at least buy you a new drink."

John considers for a moment, but this is his third pint and he's probably had enough already.

"No, thanks, I'm fine." 

"Sure?"

"Yeah." 

The man gives him a look, hands stuffed in his pockets. "Well, I'll - err - leave you to it." John gives him a half-smile, and the stranger leaves him to nurse what remains of his drink. 

John has almost finished it when he gets nudged again, but this time he can't even be bothered to react. He frowns into his drink and resolves to get out of here soon.

"Hey, it's you!"

John ignores the voice because he assumes the person is not talking to him (with Sherlock gone, John seems to have become almost invisible). 

"It _is_ you."

A hand grabs at John's arm, forcing him to turn to face a leering - and obviously quite drunk - Arsenal supporter.

"I knew it. You're that fake detective's sidekick."

John shrugs out of the young man's hold easily and turns back to his drink. This isn't the first time he's been heckled since Sherlock's death and he's sure it won't be the last, but they usually get bored soon enough and leave.

"I'm talking to you. Oi, gay boy!" the man looms, and he's clearly playing up to his friends now because John hears laughing just to the side of them. "What's the matter? Miss your boyfriend?"

John clenches his jaw but says nothing, and takes another sip of his drink. 

"My cousin once went to him for help, but he refused. She always said Sherlock Holmes was a dick. And a liar." 

John's hand curls into a fist and he presses it hard into his thigh.

"I heard he made a real good splat though," the man jokes, and his friends laugh. "Don't worry, mate, he may be dead but I bet he still takes it up the arse!"

John is on his feet before he can stop himself and his fist connects with the young man's jaw with a satisfying crack. The man hits the floor and, as soon as he does, one of his friends makes a move for John. Before John knows it, he is in a very much one-sided fight, with several blokes trying to get him on the floor at once.

"Oi, break it up!" a voice shouts. "Police!"

John manages to lift his head just in time to see the polite, suited stranger from earlier flashing his badge. No wonder he didn't quite fit in with this crowd. 

"Time to go home, boys," he tells the group of lads, who are already being not-so-gently cajoled towards the exit by a couple of mean-looking blokes who don't look very pleased by the disruption to their match viewing. The ringleader makes an obscene gesture at John, but leaves quietly enough.

The policeman finally approaches John. "You, outside."

John squares his jaw, but doesn't protest, pushing his way through the crowd and out into the cold night air. His head is pounding, but whether that's from the alcohol or a lucky hit, he's not sure. He waits at the kerb, and the policeman joins him a moment later.

"Am I under arrest then?" he says sharply. He just wants to get this over with and go home.

The policeman turns to him, hands stuffed in his pockets again.

"Luckily for you, I'm off duty," he says. "And I don't fancy the extra paperwork."

John is a little surprised, but he schools his expression. "Well, err, thanks." 

"I suspect this was a one-off, anyway. You don't look the type to be starting fights for the hell of it."

The policeman looks him over once more and John raises his eyebrows expectantly, channeling all the innocence he can muster. 

"Well then," the policeman says, clearing his throat. "You alright getting home? Need me to get you a taxi?"

"No, I'm fine. I live just round the corner."

"Alright," the policeman says. "On your way."

There is a hint of a smile in his voice and John regards him for a moment before nodding and turning to make his way back to Baker Street.

*

John can feel eyes on him as soon as he enters the pub and he has to try hard to ignore them as he follows Lestrade to the bar. He is here because Lestrade wants him to be, he reminds himself - not that it helps when he can feel the heavy glares of several of Scotland Yard's finest boring into him.

John isn't exactly popular at the Yard. For all that it was Sherlock who supposedly deceived them all and made a mockery of the police force, John still gets his fair share of hatred, even several months on. He's seen as an accomplice, of sorts, and of course it doesn't help that he still won't admit - will never admit - that Sherlock was a fraud.

Ironically, Lestrade fared the worst from the uproar following Sherlock's death - getting an eight-week suspension and having almost every one of his cases from the previous five years re-examined - and yet he bears no ill-will whatsoever. John remembers Lestrade's steadying presence through the funeral, the wake, and beyond, and is eternally grateful. He suspects dragging him to the pub every few weeks is Lestrade's way of continuing to check up on him. Which is fine, when it's not Scotland Yard's local.

Lestrade orders their drinks, but a moment later his phone goes off and, after a grimace at the screen (the soon to be ex-wife again), and a look of apology towards John, he steps aside to answer it. John leans awkwardly against the bar, keeping his eyes on the movements of the barman to avoid what could be dangerous eye-contact with anyone else. 

"If you're planning on starting a fight again... well, I really wouldn't."

John startles and turns to find the policeman from the other week next to him. John smiles shakily, pays the barman, and turns back to the policeman.

"Wouldn't even dream of it in here."

The policeman glances over John's shoulder and then back to John. "Is there any specific reason you're getting eyeballed by half of the Met?"

John blinks, shifts on his feet. "You must be new," he blurts out.

"I am," the policeman admits with a smile. "Did I miss something big?"

John really doesn't know what to say to that, and the policeman obviously notices because he looks chagrined a moment later. 

"Sorry, it's none of my business." 

"No, it's fine," John gets out uncertainly. "Fine." 

Lestrade saves them from a moment of awkward silence as he reappears with a frown, giving a nod of acknowledgement towards the younger policeman. "John, I'm really sorry, I've got to go." 

"Oh. Right."

"Sorry. It's..." He gives a vague gesture with his phone and John smiles tightly. 

"Go on. It's fine."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Go. I'll see you soon." 

"Alright then," Lestrade acquiesces, turning to glance at the other policeman. "Morstan."

"Sir." 

Lestrade looks at John again, then turns and leaves. John feels instantly about ten times more uncomfortable. 

"Do you fancy a drink?" the policeman - Morstan - asks him, and John gives a pointed look towards the drink he just bought, sitting on the bar. The policeman smiles. "Somewhere a little less hostile, maybe?" 

John hesitates, thinking that this is a little weird. He barely knows the man, has only met him twice for a grand total of about ten minutes.

"It's alright if you don't want to," the policeman says after an awkward pause. "You just look like you could use it." 

John meets his eyes again and, despite himself, he gives a quick nod. "Okay." 

The policeman smiles and they turn and make their way out of the pub. John relaxes as soon as the door swings shut behind him.

"Did you have anywhere in mind?" John asks.

"I didn't actually," the policeman admits. "I don't know this area very well." 

"Where do you live?" John asks. 

"Marylebone." 

"Oh, I'm Baker Street. We could..." he hesitates, wondering again if this is wandering into weird territory. "Maybe we should head over that way then?"

"Sounds good. Taxi?" 

"Sure."

The policeman turns and manages to hail a cab easily, and they clamber into the back.

They pass a few minutes in silence and John is glad for it, because taxis will always remind him of Sherlock, and for a moment he struggles to breathe. Once he gets himself under control, he turns to the man beside him. 

"I, err, don't actually know your name."

The man smiles and holds out his hand. "Marcus Morstan." 

John shakes his hand. "John Watson."

There is a spark of recognition in Marcus' eyes and he sits back with an 'ah'. John tenses, but Marcus - surprisingly - says nothing, and they continue their journey in a silence somewhere between comfortable and awkward.

They end up in a somewhat pretentious bar just around the corner from Baker Street, but it's quiet, at least, and the bottled lager they're drinking is pretty decent.

"So, you're new to London then?" John says. 

"Yeah. I transferred in from Essex about a month ago."

John hums, but doesn't really know what to say now. It's been a while since he's been out in a social setting with anyone that isn't Lestrade, and he's sure it's showing. 

"What about you?" Marcus asks, his body angled towards John, one arm resting on the edge of the booth. "Are you from round here originally?"

"Surrey," John explains.

"Nice."

There is a moment of silence, before John clears his throat and speaks up again.

"So, you work with Lestrade?" 

"Not directly. I'm under a different DI, but I've spoken to him in passing. He seems alright."

"Yeah," John says, fiddling with his bottle. "Yeah, he really is."

Marcus seems to hesitate momentarily, but then he catches John's gaze and soldiers on. 

"You met him through... your friend?"

John swallows hard. "Yes." 

Marcus clears his throat and looks awkwardly out across the bar. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry. For your loss."

John glances at him briefly, but then fixes his eyes on the table, blinking rapidly. "Thank you," he gets out.

John can feel his chest getting tight - as it always does when he thinks about Sherlock - but then he is startled by Marcus' hand on his arm and he looks up quickly.

"I didn't mean to upset you, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up."

John shakes his head, swallowing around the lump in his throat so he can answer. "It's fine."

"You say that a lot," Marcus says after a pause in a low, teasing voice, his hand warm on John's arm.

"Do I?" John replies with a hesitant smile. 

"Yeah," Marcus says, smiling as he finally slides his hand away. "You should probably branch out into some new adjectives."

"Hmm," John says in mock-consideration. "It's... Alright? Okay? Tolerable?"

Marcus laughs. "Do you need a thesaurus?"

"I'm told I've got a very good vocabulary."

"That so?"

John smiles warmly and Marcus returns it, his brown eyes bright with amusement. And now that he's noticed his eyes, John can't help the way his gaze flicks over Marcus' lips, curled into a smile, and his fingers wrapped round the neck of his bottle. _Oh._ John blinks and hurriedly takes a long pull on his own drink. 

It's been a long time since John's found himself attracted to another man. He's always preferred women, for the most part, and after years of playing straight in the Army he'd simply stopped looking at other men.

He sends a sideways glance at Marcus and Marcus holds it, sipping his drink. John swallows and looks away nervously. It doesn't help that he's realised Marcus is exactly his type - well, back when he had a type, some ten years ago. He feels suddenly uncomfortably warm and he shifts restlessly in his seat, avoiding Marcus' gaze.

If Marcus notices John's sudden awkwardness, he doesn't mention it, and he soon turns the conversation to the safe topics of sport, the weather, and London.

John's discomfort soon dissipates, mostly forgotten, and they talk easily about all manner of topics. John doesn't even realise how late it's got until Marcus looks at his watch.

"Arse. I'm going to have to get moving," Marcus says with a slight frown. "I've got an early start tomorrow." 

"Right. Yeah."

They finish up their drinks and leave, lingering outside on the street.

"I'm this way," John says, gesturing behind him.

"I'm this way," Marcus replies, pointing in the opposite direction.

"Right," John says. "Well, err, thanks. It was... good."

"Yeah." Marcus hesitates, and then goes into his inside jacket pocket and pulls out a card, holding it out for John. "This is my number. You know, if you feel like avoiding a fight again some time."

John's lips twitch into a smile and he takes the card.

"I'll see you soon, John," Marcus says, smiling as he holds out his hand.

John shakes it, and the hold lingers for just a moment. "Yeah." 

Marcus withdraws his hand and turns and leaves. John stands there for a moment longer, slipping the card into his pocket, then turns to make his way home. 

*

John spins Marcus' business card round and round in his hand. It's only been a few days, and John is trying to decide exactly what it means that he doesn't want to wait any longer to contact him. It should be obvious enough, after he found himself thinking of Marcus in the shower only about twenty minutes ago, but he's still sat here frozen in indecision, card in one hand, phone in the other.

The problem is that it's been so long since he's had any kind of non-platonic interaction with another bloke and he honestly can't decide if Marcus' behaviour was flirty, or just friendly. He really doesn't fancy making a fool of himself.

He twirls the card around again. On the other hand, he could always keep it friendly. He'd promised off-handedly to show Marcus some of the local restaurants, and there didn't have to be anything behind it apart from a friendly urge to help someone new to the city settle in. John scoffs at himself but unlocks his phone and flips to Messages (he doesn't quite have the guts for a phone call). 

After some deliberation, and a couple of aborted attempts, he finally types out a message and hits send before he can change his mind.

**Hi. It's John Watson. How are you? I've remembered a great Thai place not far from here, if you still fancy it.**

He goes to finish getting dressed and just as he's pulling on his shirt, his phone chimes. He snatches it up with an equal measure of eagerness and nervousness.

**_Sounds great. When? Marcus_**

**_Thursday?_** John types after a moment's consideration; it seems safer than one of the typical weekend date nights.

**_I'm working late. Friday?_**

John pauses for just a moment, before typing his reply: **_Okay. I'll meet you outside Marylebone station at 6:30._**

**_See you there._**

They meet at the station and John leads them to the restaurant a few streets over. It was a deliberate choice on John's part, even with Marcus mentioning his craving for Thai food - he'd only been there once with Sherlock, and that was only because John had practically dragged him. There are far too many restaurants in London that John can't help but associate with Sherlock and, even as he enters this one, he remembers how Sherlock had complained loudly and persistently enough to make John kick him under the table. Even with that in mind though, he is not suffocated by his memories here as he would be at Angelo's, or the Chinese at the end of Baker Street. 

As they tuck into their meals a little while later, John feels some of the tension in his chest ease. Marcus' behaviour has changed in no way to signal that he thinks John might be a stalker; he's just as friendly as before. The only problem is that John still can't tell if their interaction is erring on the side of flirtatious.

They chat and laugh and linger long past their dinners being finished, nursing their drinks. 

"So then my brother decides it'll be a really good idea to sneak up on me and shove me in the pool," Marcus is explaining with a quirk of a smile. 

"Ha! What happened?"

"I almost drowned. He had to dive in after me, the pillock," Marcus laughs. "You should have seen his face though. I think that was the first time he realised he didn't always know better than me."

John snorts with laughter. "I think I'm still waiting for the day my sister realises that." 

"Older?"

"Yeah."

"Typical." 

They both smile and take a sip of their drinks as a comfortable silence falls over them. John finishes his and places the bottle down on the table. The evening is drawing to a natural close and he almost wishes it wasn't. There's something absorbing about Marcus' company, something that lets John forget - just for a while - that his best friend threw himself off a building not so long ago, and that John didn't even see it coming.

"We should probably get going," John says hesitantly.

"The owner has been glaring at us for the last ten minutes."

John glances over, spots the owner, and turns back, trying hard to hide his smile. "Come on then."

They settle the bill and wander out into the street. It's a relatively mild evening for November and they meander along for a while in the general direction of Marylebone station. Marcus pauses at a junction and nods to the street on their left.

"My place is just here."

"Oh," John says a little disappointedly.

"Do you... want to come in for a cuppa or something?" Marcus asks with a little shrug.

"Yeah, alright."

They walk about halfway down the street and then Marcus leads the way down some steps to a basement flat. He unlocks the door and steps inside, holding the door open for John. John slides into the cramped entranceway and Marcus shuts and locks the door behind them.

Marcus turns toward John and suddenly, they are incredibly close, practically chest to chest in the small space. John lets out a huff of breath, his eyes locked on Marcus's.

"John," Marcus starts in a husky voice, leaning forward ever so slightly. "If I've read this all wrong, tell me now..."

Marcus's hand just brushes his arm and John leans into it, a tiny jolt running up his arm. "No," he says breathlessly, with a little shake of his head. "No, you haven't."

Marcus closes the distance between them and at the first touch of their lips, John makes a low noise and presses in close, one hand rising to Marcus's neck. Marcus curls one hand around John's hip, and presses the other to the centre of John's back. John slides their lips together, and presses back until Marcus is up against the door. Marcus lets out a low moan and his hand clenches around John's hip, his lips soft and warm beneath John's.

It is perhaps one of the best kisses John can recall as he licks into Marcus's mouth, relishing the sweet tang of lager on his tongue. Marcus sucks on his tongue, just for a moment, and John groans, pressing their bodies together.

By the time they break for breath, John is half-hard and panting as he presses his forehead to Marcus's.

"Fuck."

"Well, I don't usually, on a first date," Marcus teases and John opens his eyes to take in dark eyes and reddened lips. He wants - badly - and Marcus seems to sense it as he pulls John into another heated kiss. 

When they part again, John has one hand under Marcus's shirt and a leg between his, and he's pretty much fully hard. Marcus presses their heads together, his breath coming hard and fast.

"God." 

"Yeah."

"No, _thank_ God. You're not straight."

"Likewise," John says with a laugh. "When did you realise I wasn't?"

"You mean, apart from right now?" Marcus says, dark eyes flicking to where they're pressed together. "When you took my card."

John smiles and leans in to drag his lips gently across Marcus's. He knows he should slow things down, before they end up dry-humping against the front door, but it's hard to clear his head when he's drunk on intimacy he hasn't had for, god, close to a year. Not since Sherlock pissed off Jeanette and she left.

Thoughts of Sherlock quickly do the trick and John pulls back just a little bit. "You said something about a drink?"

Marcus regards him with concern for a moment, but then seemingly decides not to push and leads John through to the kitchen.

Marcus makes them both coffee, but they soon gravitate together again and John finds himself pressed up against the worktop, both hands clenched around Marcus' waist. When John breaks their kiss to catch his breath, Marcus drops to John's neck, his mouth and the gentle scrape of his teeth dragging a stuttered moan from John. 

"Oh Christ," John whispers. The erection that was only just subsiding is back in full-force and John breathes out shakily. Marcus straightens slightly and meets John's gaze.

"Are you alright?" Marcus asks.

"It's just- it's been a while."

Marcus regards him for a moment, and then takes a deliberate step back. "We should take it slow then."

John feels bereft, but he eventually gives a nod in agreement - it's probably for the best.

They drink their coffee standing across the kitchen from each other and John is itching to cross the space and kiss him again, but he holds himself back. 

"I should be getting back," he eventually says reluctantly, placing his mug down on the side. 

Marcus doesn't protest and he follows John to the door, where John pauses, uncertain as to what to say.

"I really want to see you again," Marcus says, beating John to it. "Soon."

"Yeah," John breathes. "God, yeah." He finds himself reaching out and grabbing a handful of Marcus' jacket. Marcus steps in close, one hand settling on John's hip. 

"When are you free?" Marcus asks.

"Sunday?"

"I can't," Marcus says with a grimace. "Monday?" 

John has work the following morning but he finds himself agreeing anyway. Marcus smiles and leans in for another kiss.

John breaks away some time later, with great reluctance, his hand lingering on Marcus's neck. "Monday, then."

"Yeah." 

John smiles and finally forces himself to turn and open the door. He turns on the doorstep and Marcus's hand brushes his. 

"Night."

"Night, John." 

He leans down for one more too-brief kiss, and then forces himself into the night, a ridiculous grin on his face.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to Sherlock again. Thanks to those who are still reading past the John/Marcus bits :-D

_July_ _2014_

Sherlock knows he can't hide away from the rest of the world for much longer. Much as he'd prefer to go and see John again - he'd left late last night, with much reluctance - there are other people to whom he owes a visit. It's only a matter of time before it becomes known that he is alive, and it wouldn't be fair for some people to learn the truth on the grapevine.

He decides to leave Mrs. Hudson until later in the day - perhaps he can pop up and see John afterwards - and get the meeting with Lestrade out of the way.

Mycroft, the interfering git, informs Sherlock that Lestrade has the morning off, and even goes so far as to have one of his fleet of identical black cars waiting outside the house to take Sherlock across town. Sherlock thinks about refusing, but then decides against it - he can hardly be bothered to quarrel with Mycroft anymore, and he  _has_ proved himself useful over the last three years.

Lestrade's house is out in the suburbs, and is looking a little untidy and uncared for - the wife finally left for good then, and a few years ago if the rose bushes are any indication.

Sherlock rings the doorbell and waits several long moments on the doorstep, before he hears noises from within. The door opens and, as soon as Lestrade catches sight of him, he freezes, mouth hanging open slightly.

When Lestrade still hasn't said anything after a while, Sherlock clears his throat.

"Lestrade," he gets out.

The sound of Sherlock's voice seems to jolt Lestrade out of his trance.

"Bloody hell."

Lestrade still hasn't moved or said anything else several moments later and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"Full of intelligent things to say as always, Lestrade," he comments, but his tone is not as harsh as it might previously have been.

"You're alive," Lestrade says breathlessly, and Sherlock resists the urge to sigh impatiently. "Does John know?"

"Of course."

Lestrade nods slowly, and then finally seems to get some of his sense back. "Bloody hell. Come in."

Lestrade retreats into the house and Sherlock follows, eyes flicking from place to place, taking in the changes. Lestrade already has the kettle on by the time Sherlock joins him in the kitchen and he leans against the worktop, looking at Sherlock in slight bewilderment.

"Well I hope John gave you a good clobbering," Lestrade remarks offhandedly.

"He didn't actually," Sherlock returns tartly, but then he hesitates. "His boyfriend did."

The word doesn't come easily; it feels strange in his mouth and pulls uncomfortably at his chest.

"Ah," Lestrade replies with a slight smile. "You met Marcus then. Good bloke."

Sherlock would prefer not to get into a conversation about the merits of John's boyfriend, so he changes the subject abruptly.

"Still not made Chief Inspector then?" he asks nonchalantly.

Lestrade's jaw tightens, just for a moment, before he answers. "I'm just glad I've still got a job."

Sherlock knew that there would be consequences after his apparent suicide, which was taken by many as an admission of guilt; he doesn't know precisely what happened to Lestrade, but its not difficult to surmise.

"I apologise. For any inconvenience I may have...inadvertently caused," he gets out stiltedly, and Lestrade huffs in shock.

"Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?" Lestrade teases.

"Haven't you heard? Sherlock Holmes is dead."

Lestrade smiles - just a tiny twitch of his lips. "It doesn't seem to have stuck."

"Fortunately not."

Lestrade gives him a look of something like awe and then shakes his head. "I can't believe you've been alive all this time. Where the bloody hell have you been?"

"Oh, here and there."

Lestrade shakes his head again.

"You're a complete bastard."

"So I've been told."

A slightly awkward silence embraces them for a moment before Lestrade finally turns away. "Coffee?"

"Please."

*

Sherlock is almost as nervous standing outside Mrs. Hudson's door as he was in front of the door upstairs. Mrs. Hudson is a little unpredictable; one minute she's a slightly dotty old lady, the next she's something else altogether - the woman with nerves of steel who was willing to do anything to see her husband put to death.

After an almost excruciating wait, Sherlock finally hears a shuffling of feet, and the door opens a beat later. Mrs. Hudson looks startled - but not as much as he'd expected - and she reaches out for him.

"Oh, it's true," she gasps, pulling him into an embrace. "I didn't believe them, but here you are!"

Her perfume still smells the same, floral and musky like old soap, and Sherlock pulls back after a moment just to look at her. Mrs Hudson gives him a halfhearted slap on the shoulder. "You wicked boy. How could you do that to us?"

Sherlock gives her a weak smile and she shakes her head dazedly, pulling back and pressing her hand to her chest. "I swear, if John and Marcus hadn't come and told me this morning, you would've given me a right shock. Come in, come in."

Somehow, Sherlock finds himself in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen, being practically pushed into a chair at her table as she frowns down at him.

"Look at you," she says. "You're so thin. I bet you've hardly been looking after yourself, especially without John to keep an eye on you."

She waves a finger at him in admonition and bustles off towards the fridge. "I'll make you a sandwich. What do you want? Ham and lettuce?"

He barely has time to reply before she starts pulling ingredients out of the fridge and he slumps back in his chair a little, watching her with fondness. It's finally starting to sink in that he's home, and he feels like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders.

*

Sherlock leaves Mrs. Hudson's and hesitates for a moment before making his way up the stairs. He reaches the top and is once again faced with a closed door. It doesn't take him quite as long to gather up the courage to knock this time, and the door opens a few seconds later. John smiles widely and beckons him into the flat.

Marcus is sitting on the sofa, feet up on the coffee table as he watches television and he gives Sherlock a little wave in greeting. Sherlock smiles weakly and turns back to John.

"Have you been to see Mrs. Hudson?" John asks.

"Yes, I've just come from there."

"Good."

"You told her I was alive."

"Yeah, well, we didn't want to risk you giving her a heart attack or something," John explains with a grin. "It was a pretty close thing anyway."

"Thank you."

John looks a little nonplussed by the thanks, but he says nothing. "Did you want a drink of anything? I was just about to make tea. Or something to eat, maybe?"

"I'm fine. Mrs. Hudson has set me up for the rest of the day," Sherlock says with a smile and John laughs as he wanders off into the kitchen.

Sherlock isn't sure whether to follow John or to attempt small talk with Marcus, but before he can decide, the silence is pierced by a phone ringing. Marcus scrambles in his pocket and pulls his mobile out.

"DS Morstan."

There is a short pause as the caller talks and Marcus nods, getting to his feet. "Right, yeah."

John appears at the door, arms crossed.

"Just knew a whole day off was too good to be true," John comments under his breath, but there is no resentment in his tone - he's obviously more than used to this.

"Yeah, he is actually," Marcus speaks up, glancing at Sherlock. "Yes. I'll be there as soon as possible."

Marcus hangs up and turns to John. "They've found the girl," he says with a slight frown, and John's expression fills with a familiar mixture of horror, pity, and disbelief.

Marcus then turns to Sherlock. "Lestrade says if you're planning on going back into business, he could really use a consultant on this one."

Sherlock stills in surprise. "I can't imagine that going down well with his superiors."

Marcus shares a look with John over Sherlock's shoulder.

"Your name was cleared over a year ago," John explains, and Sherlock turns to him with raised eyebrows. "You didn't really think I was going to let you go down in history as the greatest fraudster ever to fool the police, did you?"

Sherlock does not know what to say to that.

"It helped having a couple of insiders, of course," John remarks with a smile at Marcus.

"Lestrade has already cleared it with the Chief Inspector," Marcus explains. "So, can you come?"

Sherlock hasn't really thought about what he's going to do now that he's back, but the lure of The Work is as strong ever. The last three years have been a test of his physical and mental strength, but with Moriarty dead, there was no real intellectual challenge. Only Moriarty's second-in-charge, Sebastian Moran, had been more than averagely intelligent, but Sherlock had tricked him in the end and now he was wasting away in a Parisian prison.

Sherlock eventually gives a nod and Marcus grabs his jacket and pulls it on.

"I'm really sorry," Marcus says, crossing the room to John.

"I know," John says with a smile. Marcus leans in and Sherlock averts his eyes as they kiss.

"I'll see you later," Marcus says to John, before addressing Sherlock. "Ready?"

Sherlock nods and they make their way out of the flat.

Marcus has an unmarked car parked up in an underground garage just around the corner from Baker Street. He and Sherlock pass the short journey in silence and it is only once they're in the car that Sherlock speaks up.

"Where's the scene?"

"Maida Vale."

Sherlock nods and they fall silent again as Marcus pulls out of the garage and begins to navigate his way through the busy London traffic.

It's not far to the crime scene - although it takes almost half an hour, thanks to the traffic - and Marcus fills Sherlock in on the details of the case so far: eighteen-year-old girl missing, parents put up a huge reward, and now she's been found. Dead, of course. Marcus is obviously a little perturbed, but he remains professional as he goes on.

"We spoke to the boyfriend. He was with her best friend when she went missing."

Sherlock scoffs and Marcus goes on.

"Texts and calls from her phone didn't show anything strange," Marcus continues, turning into a side road. "Phone's been off for a day now."

Sherlock hums in reply, and Marcus pulls in behind another police car. The entrance to an abandoned shop just along the street is already swarming with forensic technicians and Sherlock can see the unmistakable figure of Anderson among them.

"Alright?" Marcus asks.

Sherlock schools his expression and nods stiffly. They climb out of the car and Sherlock spots Lestrade waiting just the other side of the police tape. They join him and Lestrade gives Sherlock a grim smile.

"We probably could've done with you a day or two ago," Lestrade remarks. "Shame you were busy being dead."

Sherlock isn't sure what to make of the comment, but then Lestrade shrugs and gestures for them to follow him to the shop.

Marcus and Lestrade go ahead and Sherlock trails slightly behind. He can feel eyes on him but he doesn't bother looking round.

The body is artfully sprawled (positioned after death) in the middle of the tiny storage room at the back of the shop. Lestrade dismisses the few forensic technicians hanging around and waves Sherlock forward as he and Marcus linger near the doorway.

Sherlock moves forward and crouches by the girl, and for the space of a few heartbeats, he is lost; it's been so long since he's had to do this. He takes a deep breath, lets it out, and suddenly he spots the smudge at the back of the girl's neck.

After that, it's a flurry of data and his mouth can barely keep up as he barks observations out into the silence. This is what he was made to do; this is where he is really at home.

"An artist," he finally pronounces, straightening and turning towards Lestrade. "Someone she knew very well. Intimately, even."

Lestrade shares a look with Marcus.

"The tutor?" Marcus asks and Lestrade gives a grim nod.

Marcus dashes from the room and Lestrade turns his attention back to Sherlock.

"I see you haven't lost any of your touch," Lestrade comments, then smiles weakly. "It's good to have you back."

Sherlock gives him a strained look in return.

"I'll need to go through some paperwork with you," Lestrade adds with a slight grimace. "They've really cracked down on procedure, as you can imagine."

"I'll come by the Yard tomorrow."

Lestrade looks a little surprised by his offer, but thanks him anyway. Marcus reappears a moment later.

"Jones has gone to arrest the art tutor," he reports.

"Great," Lestrade replies. "I suppose we'd better let Forensics finish up here. Is the coroner here yet?"

"On his way."

Lestrade nods and Marcus disappears once more, presumably to give the forensics team the all-clear.

"Come on, let's get out of here," Lestrade says. Sherlock follows him back into the main room, where they almost collide with the forensics team coming back in.

Sherlock steps to one side, and Anderson comes to a stop in front of him. Their gazes hold for a long moment and Sherlock can sense Lestrade hovering nervously nearby, but then a technician calls to Anderson, breaking through the awkward moment, and he gives Sherlock a final glance before moving away again. Sherlock looks at Lestrade, who raises his eyebrows and gives a one-shouldered shrug.

Marcus returns once more and Lestrade turns to him. "Sorry for calling you in on your day off. We're pretty much done here now though. You can pack up if you want."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. The paperwork can wait 'til tomorrow," Lestrade says easily, and then smiles. "Besides, I don't fancy John giving me an earful next time I see him."

Marcus laughs and his gaze moves to Sherlock. "Do you want me to drop you off anywhere?"

"Thank you, I'll walk."

"You sure? It's no problem. And anyway, it's just started raining. I'll give you a lift."

Sherlock wants to protest, but there's that hard steely edge of authority in Marcus's voice again, and he can't think of a good reason to refuse. He acquiesces and they say their goodbyes before heading out to the car once more.

"Where to?" Marcus asks as they climb in.

Sherlock doesn't particularly want to return to Mycroft's - he'd prefer to spend as much time away from there as possible - but he has nowhere else to go. Marcus regards him for a beat, and then starts up the car.

"John's probably doing dinner about now, if you've got nothing better on."

"I wouldn't want to intrude," Sherlock mumbles awkwardly, staring out into the street.

"Don't be stupid. You're John's friend."

There is a pause as Marcus pulls away from the kerb, but then he speaks up again. "I still don't think it's quite sunk in that you're back. He's a little... shellshocked."

Sherlock turns his head slightly to watch Marcus's profile. "Shellshocked, but happy," Marcus adds.

Sherlock makes a non-committal noise and they fall silent as Marcus competently winds his way back towards Baker Street.

When they return to 221b, John looks surprised but pleased when his gaze flicks past Marcus to Sherlock.

"That was quick," John comments. "Have you solved it already?"

"He did, actually," Marcus says. "It was incredible."

"It was obvious," Sherlock says dismissively, and John smiles widely.

"You can tell me all about it over dinner."

"Really, I should be going..." Sherlock gets out weakly.

"What, back to Mycroft's?" John comments, flashing Marcus a quick smile as he joins John in the kitchen and starts poking at the contents of a saucepan. "You're not seriously telling me you'd rather spend time with your brother?"

It would be quite difficult to explain why even Mycroft's company seems like a more enjoyable prospect than the torture of watching John and Marcus together, so Sherlock simply scoffs in reply.

"My thoughts exactly," John says.

John turns back to his cooking and Marcus starts to pull plates out of a nearby cupboard. Sherlock moves forward and seats himself somewhat awkwardly at the table, wondering exactly how he'd got himself into this situation two nights in a row.

Over dinner Marcus relates the latest twists of the case and Sherlock, with much prompting, adds some of his own comments. John sits and listens attentively with a familiar expression of awe. Sherlock can't help thinking how strange it is to have John on the outside, when he was such a vital part of The Work before - but it's obvious that John no longer lives in that world. It's a little saddening to think that Sherlock really is still alone, even though he has returned to his friends and family.

Dinner passes quickly and Sherlock eventually leaves the couple to their evening together and makes his way back to Mycroft's. He is in no mood to face his brother so he heads straight upstairs and, once he is safely in his room, he takes his violin from its case and plays and plays until he is numb to everything but the sound of his bow on the strings.

*

"Are you alright?"

John startles at the sound of Marcus's voice. Marcus rolls onto his side, his hand brushing over John's arm.

"Of course."

Marcus just shoots him a look and John gives in with a sigh. "Alright, alright... I don't know."

"I think that's probably normal. It's not every day your dead best mate turns up alive."

John smiles weakly. "I'm happy, of course I am, but..."

"You're still hurt."

"Yeah that. And the rest of it."

Marcus stays silent and John lets out another sigh. "He was dead, Marc. I saw him fall, I buried him... I mourned him. And now he's back and he's already solving crimes and - and it's as if he's just been on bloody holiday or something!"

"You're angry with him."

John glances at Marcus, and then fixes his gaze on the ceiling once more. "Yes," he sighs. "He made me think he was dead for three years. He just went gallivanting off, fighting against this huge network all by himself and..."

John trails off and Marcus props himself up on one elbow, drawing John's attention. "And you wish he'd taken you with him."

John holds his gaze for a long moment, and then shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe. Probably. It doesn't matter now, it's over and he's home and that's what's important."

They fall silent, and John rubs a hand over his face.

"You were right," Marcus says after a while, and John turns to him once more. "He's a genius."

"Did you think it was all just exaggerated nostalgia?" John asks with a teasing smile.

"No, but it's one thing to hear about it, another to see it in action. The things he picked up on at the scene today... It was unbelievable."

"Yeah, that's what a lot of people thought, remember?" John says a little bitterly, and Marcus hums in agreement.

"I still have no idea how he did it."

"Trust me, you never will," John remarks with a laugh. "I've always thought I was pretty observant - you know, being a doctor and all - but he's just..."

"On a different plane," Marcus finishes, and they share a grin.

Marcus flops back down onto his pillow, his leg pressed to John's. They fall into a comfortable silence, both staring at the ceiling.

"He's gorgeous, too," Marcus says after a while.

"I've never really noticed."

"You're kidding?" Marcus gets out with a laugh, turning his head to give John an incredulous look. "Are you honestly telling me that you've never thought, not even for a single second, not even when you first met, that he was incredibly attractive?"

"I know people find him attractive - I've seen him take advantage of it a hundred times, believe me - but, I don't know, to me he's just always been... Sherlock." John shrugs dismissively.

"You're either mad or blind," Marcus jokes and John turns towards him, grinning.

"You fancy him."

"No, I don't."

"That's not what it sounds like," John teases.

"He's not my type."

"What  _is_  your type then?"

In the space of a heartbeat, Marcus has him pinned to the bed, his body pressed the length of John's. "Blonde," Marcus says with a smile, his breath brushing over John's lips. "Not too tall... Not too thin..."

"Are you saying I'm short and fat?" John asks with a sly smile, hooking one hand round the back of Marcus's neck and pulling him in close.

"You said it," Marcus counters with a laugh, ghosting his mouth over John's.

"You arse," John says, tugging him into a kiss. There is no real intent behind it, but it's enough to make John forget about anything but the man in his bed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those not so keen on John/Marcus might want to skip this one ;-)

_October 2011_

John arrives at Marcus's flat just after six on Monday evening, a little restless but more than looking forward to their meeting. They've texted a lot over the last three days, and John can't wait to see him again. He knocks on the door and it opens a few seconds later, Marcus greeting him with a warm smile and, as soon as the door is shut behind them, a kiss.

"Hello to you too," John murmurs when they finally part for breath.

"I've been thinking about doing that all day."

John laughs lowly and pulls Marcus in for another kiss. He's had similar thoughts himself so he's in no mind to protest, and they both know it's the main reason they chose to spend the night somewhere a little more private.

Marcus eventually pulls back and leads John through to the kitchen.

"I'm afraid it's only spag bol," Marcus says. "My culinary skills aren't the best."

"Spag bol is fine," John replies.

"Fine?"

"Tolerable, then," John jokes and Marcus smiles at him warmly before turning away to dish up the dinner.

"We'll have to eat on the sofa," Marcus explains and John isn't surprised - there doesn't seem to be a huge amount of space from what John's seen of the flat.

"Alright. Anything I can do?"

"Grab some cutlery out of that drawer there?" Marcus asks with a nod towards it.

John gets out knives and forks and places them down on the side by the plates, letting his hand rest on Marcus' lower back as he does so. "All set."

They carry their food through to the living room and settle side-by-side on the sofa, just enough room between them to manoeuvre cutlery comfortably, but no more.

They chat idly over dinner - about the weather, what they've been up to - but there isn't much they haven't already said in the flurry of texts over the weekend. The atmosphere seems to crackle with sexual tension and John jolts when Marcus's fingers brush across his as he takes John's empty plate. Marcus takes the dishes back through to the kitchen and returns with a bottle of wine and two glasses that he sets down on the coffee table.

"Are you planning on getting me drunk so you can take advantage" John teases as Marcus sits down beside him once more.

"Do I need to get you drunk?" Marcus counters with a somewhat sly grin.

"No," John replies, pulling him in for a kiss that quickly grows heated. Marcus flicks his tongue against John's lips, coaxing them open, and then slides his tongue over John's.

John moans, urging him closer, and before his brain has fully caught up, Marcus is perched across his lap, leaning down into their kiss. John stutters out a moan and tugs Marcus's shirt from his trousers, desperate to get his hands on warm skin. Marcus gasps against John's mouth and drops his head to press his lips to John's throat.

"Oh God," John breathes, his hands clenching against Marcus's waist.

"Too fast?" Marcus whispers in a rough voice, his tongue pressing against the underside of John's jaw.

"No. No, God, I..."

"When you said 'a while'...?"

"A year."

Marcus hums against his neck, and his hand skims down John's side, coming to rest on his waist. He rocks forward in a quick, almost-involuntary movement and John chokes, his hips rising up almost of their own accord. He's getting very hard, very quickly, helpless to stop his body's reaction.

"I know I said we should take it slow... but if I said I wanted to suck you, would it be too much?" Marcus asks.

The thought alone is enough to make John's breath hitch and when Marcus pulls back, he is smiling smugly. John watches him with a hooded gaze as he unfolds himself and slides effortlessly to his knees, hands resting high on John's thighs. John is achingly hard now and he has to work to slow his breathing.

Marcus leans in slowly, his eyes focused on John's face as he mouths at John's erection through his trousers. John throws his head back, the sight far too erotic, desire leaving him lightheaded and struggling to breathe.

"I thought about doing this too," Marcus murmurs, drawing John's attention. "Among other things..."

Marcus pulls back and his hands go to John's fly. He unbuttons and unzips the trousers and then tugs at them until John lifts up and he can pull them down. John's cock is straining at the fabric of his boxers and when Marcus presses his mouth to it, he jerks uncontrollably. Marcus smiles, and quickly rids him of his boxers too.

John closes his eyes, panting heavily. He knows that if he looks, it'll be over even quicker than it probably will be anyway. Marcus mouths at the inside of his thigh and John gasps.

"Look at me," Marcus urges quietly and John forces his head up just as Marcus flicks his tongue against the tip of John's cock.

John groans and Marcus slides his mouth over the head. John's hands clench helplessly by his sides as Marcus lowers his mouth, and then slides back up again, setting a painfully slow rhythm. John bites his lip to stop another groan and presses his fists to his thighs.

He can barely remember his last blowjob - it's something many of his girlfriends weren't really into - and it's all the more intense for it. God, he loves it: the heat and the pressure and the moisture. Marcus hums around him and sucks harder and John swears, his hips rocking up helplessly. He can already feel his balls drawing up and he doesn't want it to be over, but when Marcus's hand drifts up to fondle between his legs, he knows he's not going to last much longer. He reaches out clumsily for Marcus's shoulder in warning, but Marcus just sucks him even harder, until John gives an aborted cry and comes with a full-body jerk.

John is still coming back to himself when he hears the sound of a zip and a muffled moan from where Marcus' head is pressed to John's leg. He can see Marcus' arm working and he swallows hard, urging his body into motion. He sits up, tugging Marcus into a messy kiss as he wraps his hand around Marcus's on his cock. Marcus swears against John's mouth and John smiles, stroking with him for a while, before reaching down and pushing past the elastic of Marcus' waistband to pull gently on his sac, his fingers just brushing his perineum.

Marcus gives a stuttered groan and comes, collapsing against John awkwardly as he catches his breath.

After a long moment, Marcus looks down, his head still pressed to John's chest, and gives a snort of laughter. "Shit. I got the sofa."

John laughs and they finally part, Marcus grimacing as he tucks himself back into his trousers. "I think I better go get cleaned up."

John grins and slouches back into the cushions, his trousers and boxers still round his ankles. Marcus gives him an appreciative look as he gets to his feet and John's cock twitches half-heartedly.

"I'll be back in a minute."

Marcus disappears, leaving John wallowing in post-coital lassitude. It takes several minutes, but he finally manages to get the energy to sort himself out. He sinks back into the sofa when he's done, and Marcus returns a few moments later in a new pair of trousers.

Marcus pours them both a drink and then sits beside John, handing him one of the glasses. John takes a mouthful, watching the other man over the rim. The corner of Marcus's mouth quirks into a smile as he drinks, and John flushes with warmth. He doesn't think he's ever been this infatuated this quickly - but that could just be the endorphins talking.

"So..." Marcus starts. "A year?"

"Yeah," John confirms.

"How exactly have you stayed single all this time?"

"By living with a madman," John jokes, and then blanches when he realises what he's said. Marcus starts to reach out for him but John shakes his head determinedly, and speaks up again.

"No, it's ok... I wasn't a very stable prospect, anyway. Apparently women in their 30s like that kind of thing."

"Women?" Marcus echoes, a slight hint of surprise in his voice.

"Yeah."

"And how long since you've been with a man?" he asks pointedly.

"About... ten years," John replies, and continues at Marcus' slightly shocked expression: "The Army wasn't exactly a good place for, well, this sort of thing."

Marcus frowns a little but nods in understanding. "Yeah, I can imagine." He takes a sip of his drink before speaking up again. "I'm not out at work, for similar reasons. It's caused... problems before."

Silence falls over them and John takes another sip of his drink. Marcus settles back on the sofa, his knee pressed to John's.

"You should probably know that I'm not very good at casual," Marcus says meaningfully, glancing at John.

John watches him for a moment, his gaze sweeping over the other man's profile. "Me neither."

Marcus' lips twitch into a smile. "So, should I be honoured that you've come over to the dark side again?" Marcus asks teasingly.

John laughs. "It seems like more fun over here."

Marcus lowers his glass and turns towards John, regarding him for a moment before leaning in for a kiss. He tastes like wine - and, beneath that, John - and it makes the blood rush south once more. When they finally break apart, Marcus gives him a knowing look.

"What time do you have work in the morning?" Marcus asks.

"Not 'til ten."

Marcus looks pleased. "You could stay here for the night then."

"I could."

"If you wanted to."

"I do," John answers honestly and Marcus presses in close for another kiss. John wraps one arm awkwardly around Marcus, glass still in hand, and cups Marcus' cheek with the other. He feels warm and a little lightheaded, but happier than he has in a long time.

*

True to their word, John and Marcus are practically living out of each other's pockets within a few weeks, leaving casual far behind. They spend almost all of their free time together, and it's really only a matter of time before someone notices. That person, of course, is Mrs. Hudson. They don't really spend much time at 221b, but Mrs. Hudson - shrewd woman that she is - has noticed how much time John is spending away from Baker Street, and she doesn't waste time before confronting him.

Having collared John with the excuse of changing a lightbulb for her, she takes the opportunity to pounce while he's trapped at the top of a stepladder, fiddling with the attachment.

"Who are they then?"

 "Sorry?" John gets out distractedly, glancing down at Mrs. Hudson.

"Who is it? The person you're seeing," she says with a knowing look.

John freezes, rewinds back through her clever avoidance of pronouns of any sort, and perches on the top step, smiling a little bashfully.

"His name's Marcus."

"Oh, I knew it!" Mrs. Hudson says. "You look so much happier, dear, I'm so glad. Now, tell me all about him."

John laughs and returns to fighting with the lightbulb he's trying to change. "He's a policeman," he says, and smiles as Mrs. Hudson gives a delighted coo. "He's from Essex."

"You'll have to bring him round for dinner," Mrs. Hudson says firmly. "I can't believe you tried to hide it from me."

"It wasn't on purpose," John explains. "We haven't told anyone. In fact, you're the first to know."

"Am I really?"

"Unless someone's been spying on us," John jokes, and then freezes when he realises it could be true - he wouldn't put it past Mycroft Holmes.

Mrs. Hudson doesn't seem to notice John's sudden lapse into silence and starts questioning him about Marcus's favourite foods. John laughs, answers as best he can, and finally manages to swap the bulbs.

When John brings Marcus round to 221b three days later, Mrs. Hudson looks about fit to burst and spends the whole time fawning over both of them and slowly but surely trying to tease Marcus's entire life story out of him. Marcus seems to take it all in his stride though and, as they are leaving, Mrs. Hudson pulls John aside to tell him what a lovely man he's got himself.

Marcus and John make their way upstairs, and John flops down on the sofa, Marcus next to him.

"You wanna stay here tonight?" John suggests, reaching out to pull Marcus close, one hand slipping under the bottom of his shirt.

"Here?" Marcus echoes, surprised, and John pulls back slightly to regard him.

"What is it?" John asks.

"Nothing, nothing," Marcus says unconvincingly, but a moment later he adds: "I assumed there was a reason you always wanted to stay at mine." 

"Yeah, you're there," John teases.

"No, I thought..." Marcus trails off and John frowns, trying to puzzle out what Marcus is trying to say. It hits him with a slight shock, followed by a wave of guilt when he can't even remember the last time he thought of Sherlock more than fleetingly; he's been so caught up in Marcus and their developing relationship.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-" Marcus starts, but John shakes his head and Marcus's hand presses against his arm. "It's just, when you were in the toilet Mrs. Hudson was talking about...him."

"You can say his name," John says with a tiny smile.

"Sherlock." 

John lets out a huff of breath and Marcus squeezes his arm.

"I didn't think you wanted to be here," Marcus explains quietly. "Because it reminds you of him." 

John lets out a shaky breath and looks around the living room, which suddenly seems too empty; he packed away all of Sherlock's things long ago - hid them away in Sherlock's room - to stop from being crippled by memories every time he glanced at the skull, or the Scrabble board pinned to the wall, or the piles of journals and newspapers. The flat seems almost lifeless and bare now, but it is still his home.

"Sometimes I want to be reminded," John whispers.

Marcus squeezes his arm reassuringly.

John swallows dryly and draws Marcus in close with a hand at the back of his neck, pressing their foreheads together. "Let's go to bed." 

John leads Marcus up the stairs to his bedroom and draws him down onto the bed. Marcus kisses him and John presses into it, but he's distracted and Marcus pulls away after only a few seconds. Marcus regards him for a moment, and then pulls back a little, propped up on his elbow.

"Tell me about him." 

John goes to protest, but stops himself short. They've skirted around the subject of Sherlock for the last few weeks and John suddenly feels like he's about to burst with all the things he hasn't said. He lays back on the pillow and rubs both hands over his face, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

"He was my best friend," he gets out.

For a moment, John says nothing more, and Marcus stays silent by his side. Eventually, John takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly before speaking up.

"Before I met him...I didn't know what I was going to do with myself. I'd just been invalided home and I...I was feeling pretty useless. And then I met Sherlock..." 

He smiles softly, sparing a glance at Marcus, who is listening intently.

"He was brilliant. Really, properly brilliant. A genius. Don't...Don't listen to what people at Scotland Yard say, because they didn't know Sherlock. _I_ knew Sherlock, and I know he wasn't a fake."

John laughs weakly, a bitter sound. "I told him, the day before he... I told him I knew he was for real because no-one could fake being such a dick all the time." 

John falls silent for the space of a few breaths, remembering that day and how he'd known something big was coming, but not what - not until it was too late. 

"He made my life worthwhile again, and I...I miss him." His voice breaks and he clears his throat as Marcus moves even closer. "I miss him," he repeats. "So much."

He meets Marcus's sympathetic gaze and has to swallow around the lump in his throat. The memories threaten to overwhelm him, and he closes his eyes. 

"John." 

John leans blindly into Marcus and when their lips collide, mostly by accident, John holds him close and kisses him almost desperately. Marcus moans low in his throat and John tries to grab whatever he can - hair, clothes, skin - suddenly needing him closer. John keeps tugging until Marcus is forced to straddle him and the press of their bodies satiates some of his hunger. 

Marcus rises up and starts pulling at the buttons of his shirt and John joins him, pressing his mouth to the bare skin at the base of Marcus's neck. Marcus groans and finally shrugs his shirt off, before his fingers twist in what little of John's hair he can get a hold on.

"Off," Marcus breathes. "Clothes off..."

John smiles, but quickly unbuttons his shirt, shrugging it down his shoulders before going for the buttons of Marcus's jeans. He gets them undone and shoves his hands inside, grabbing Marcus's arse and pulling him down as he grinds up. Marcus's hands cup John's face and he nips at John's mouth, moving with John's guiding motions. 

"Fuck," John hisses, the sensations already threatening to become too much.

"Please tell me you have supplies," Marcus gets out in a husky voice and it takes a moment for John's brain to catch up. He pulls away just enough so he can meet Marcus's gaze, grinding up into him again.

"You... You want..." John can barely get any words out, fantasy and reality blending to make him impossibly hard. 

"Hell yes," Marcus says, but he pauses long enough to hold John's gaze. "If you want to." 

John's answer is to kiss him, hard, and to start pulling at his jeans. Marcus smiles, and after some time breaks the kiss to rise to his feet and step out of his trousers. His hands go to his boxers and John's brain suddenly decides to wake up, sending his hands to the zip of his own flies. He wriggles out of his trousers and boxers and Marcus sinks back down, their cocks sliding together. 

"Now would be a good time to get those supplies," Marcus murmurs and John leans over to his bedside table, scrabbling around in the drawer until he finds a condom and a bottle of lube. 

He's barely had a chance to turn back when Marcus kisses him again, and John drops the packets on the bed, grabbing Marcus by the arse again and grinding them together. Marcus tongues at the seam of his mouth and John opens it wide, their tongues sliding together messily as John lets his hand slide down Marcus's crack, the tip of his forefinger just brushing over the perineum and dragging slowly back. He's had plenty of occasion to see just how sensitive Marcus is here, during handjobs and blowjobs, and when he presses against his entrance, Marcus bucks helplessly and curses. 

"You like that?" John murmurs, pressing a little harder. 

"I'll like it a lot better when it's your cock," Marcus says and when John looks up, surprised but aroused by the coarse language, Marcus is flushed red and shifting restlessly against him. 

Spurred into action, John reaches for the lube and spreads it over his fingers, before reaching back and sliding one finger home. Marcus huffs out a breath, but nods.

"More." 

John adds another finger and Marcus gasps, hands gripping John's arms tightly as he rocks on John's fingers. 

"I should have done this a lot sooner," John gets out, pistoning his fingers. "You look...amazing." 

Marcus gives him a brief smile, but then he groans and throws his head back. "Hurry up." 

John swallows hard and reaches for the condom, sliding it on as quickly as he can. "I haven't done this in a really long time, so you have to let me know-" 

"You won't hurt me," Marcus reassures him, lifting up and reaching for John's cock. He lines up and sinks down in one smooth, hot motion, and they both let out a moan. 

"Oh God," John pants, completely absorbed in the heat and the tightness. His hands settle on Marcus's hips as Marcus seems content to set the pace, rocking slowly up and down on John's cock. Marcus reaches down to kiss him and John moans against his mouth, thrusting up into him. It's been too long and John knows he isn't going to last for very long. 

"Marc, I-" 

"Okay, okay," Marcus breathes, rocking harder as he reaches for his own cock, pumping it swiftly. John thrusts in time, completely absorbed in the sight of him: head thrown back, slamming down hard, hand tugging at his own cock. 

John's orgasm is upon him in a matter of seconds and he groans, burying himself inside Marcus as he comes. Marcus follows him a moment later, swearing, and they collapse together on the bed, sweaty and entwined. 

Marcus rolls off somewhat awkwardly and John removes the condom and ties it off, leaning over to throw it in the small bin by his bed. He rolls back and slumps beside Marcus, who presses his forehead to John's shoulder.

"Good way to christen this bed," Marcus mumbles, and John can't stop the giggle that escapes him. 

"Fuck yes." 

Marcus returns his smile, but hesitates for a short pause before speaking up again, his gaze uncertain. 

"John... I love you." 

John stills for a moment, surprised. "You do?"

"Is it really that much of a shock?"

"No. No," John gets out, and leans over to kiss Marcus softly, his lips twitching into a smile. "I love you too."

"Do you now?" 

"Are you surprised?" John teases and Marcus grins.

"Not really. I'm a great fuck." 

John barks out a laugh and pulls him close. "You are. You've got a few other redeeming qualities too."

"Just a few?" 

"Fishing?" John asks with a wide smile, and Marcus just shakes his head.

"Don't know about you," John says after a few moments. "But I'm definitely ready for bed now." 

Marcus hums in reply, which is all the answer John needs. He coaxes Marcus up and pulls the covers over them, and then curls up behind him, one arm slung round his waist. Marcus is asleep within seconds and John follows him not long after.


	5. Chapter 5

_July 2014_

Sherlock keeps his word and makes his way down to Scotland Yard the next day, and is greeted with a number of alarmed looks. The rumour of his being alive has evidently spread throughout the force, but several officers still seem dumbfounded to see him in the flesh. He ignores them all and heads straight for Lestrade's office, the PC who is supposed to be escorting him struggling to keep up. He knocks once, waves away his escort, and lets himself in.

Lestrade looks up from his desk, surprise melting away into a genuine smile. Sally Donovan looks round from the other side of the desk and her features settle into a mask of indifference. She shuts the file she is holding and gets to her feet, turning towards Sherlock.

"Freak," she acknowledges with something almost like friendliness.

"Sally," Sherlock returns. "I see you finally got that promotion to DI."

He decides not to comment on the link between her 'uncovering' his fraud and going up the ranks - in any case, Sally probably deserves the job. Sally smiles tightly, turns to nod at Lestrade, and then leaves them.

Sherlock takes her empty seat, crossing his legs and leaning back into the cool leather.

"Let's get on with it then. I have better things to be doing with my time."

"Like what?" Lestrade teases, even as he opens up the file. "I can't imagine a dead man has a lot of appointments in his calendar."

Sherlock gives him a scathing look, but Lestrade just grins in reply.

"Right then," Lestrade says. "You know how it goes - from the top, please."

Sherlock recounts every step and every deduction as Lestrade frantically scribbles it all down. When they are finally done, Lestrade thanks him and tucks the papers away. Sherlock is just rising to his feet when Lestrade speaks up again.

"I know it's not your sort of thing, but I'm having a drink with John and Marcus later, if you want to come along."

Sherlock shrugs indifferently and Lestrade gets to his feet to show him out, apparently ignoring his lack of an answer. "It's become something of a tradition. Every Thursday, shifts permitting. You should come, it'll do you good."

"I very much doubt that," Sherlock remarks dryly.

"Live a little," Lestrade jokes and Sherlock gives him a strained smile. "And it'll give you a chance to get to know Marcus."

"Why would I need to do that?" Sherlock asks, and Lestrade gives him a slight frown.

"Because he's part of John's life now, and if you want to be in John's life again, you have to accept that."

Sherlock says nothing, slightly bemused by Lestrade's earnestness.

"Anyway, think about it," Lestrade continues, ushering him towards the door. "We usually go to The Fox and Hounds, just round the corner from Baker Street."

Sherlock gives a vague hum and leaves Lestrade to get on with his day.

*

Sherlock, God help him, decides to take Lestrade up on his offer and meets him outside The Fox and Hounds that evening. He pretends that it is simply the desire for any company that is not his brother's. Lestrade is pleasantly surprised to see him and ushers him into the pub with a grin.

Lestrade heads straight for a table in the back, where John and Marcus are already sitting - presumably this is their usual table. John's arm is slung over the back of Marcus's chair and their bodies are pointed towards each other - both markers of casual intimacy that make Sherlock's smile just a little bit more strained.

"Look who the cat dragged in," Lestrade remarks and John and Marcus both laugh. "Drinks, then?"

"I'm fine for now," John says, lifting his half-full glass.

"Me too," Marcus adds.

"Sherlock?"

"I'll have a scotch."

Lestrade goes off to the bar and Sherlock sits down opposite the couple.

"Never thought I'd see the day - Sherlock Holmes in a pub," John teases.

"I went to the pub in Dartmoor," Sherlock points out.

"That doesn't count, we were staying there."

"When was this? During that Baskerville thing?" Marcus asks and John nods as Marcus turns towards Sherlock. "John let me read all his old case notes."

"I wanted you on my side," John says, his eyes flicking over to meet Sherlock's. "I would've done whatever it took to prove that you weren't a fake."

Sherlock blinks, once again disarmed by the knowledge of John's continued loyalty. John holds his gaze for a moment, smiles softly, and then finally looks away as Marcus starts up a new topic of conversation.

Lestrade rejoins them and Sherlock takes his scotch gladly, letting the burn as it slips down his throat distract him. The conversation moves onto the mundane and everyday and Sherlock can't help but zone out a little. He finds his gaze keeps creeping back to John and Marcus, no matter how hard he tries to resist. The urge to torture himself with the unattainable creeps up on him like some sort of masochistic compulsion. Sherlock finds himself cataloguing and absorbing every moment of contact from shared smiles to the easy intimacy of brushed fingers on the tabletop. Every moment of it sets up a deep, aching discomfort in the centre of his body, their obvious affection prickling like tiny shards of glass under his skin. John's hand brushes Marcus's shoulder, thumb swiping affectionately down the seam of his shirt and Sherlock forces himself to turn away. Jealousy is a petty weakness, but it's one he finds himself afflicted by with unpleasant regularity.

He is jolted out of his daze by a foot tapping against his ankle, and when he looks up, John is watching him out of the corner of his eye, his expression soft with amusement. Sherlock regards him for a moment, and then forces himself back to the conversation just as Lestrade turns to him.

"So, what are your plans? You're not staying with Big Brother forever, are you?" Lestrade asks.

"God, no. I'll have to start looking for somewhere."

"There's always 221C," Marcus suggests and Sherlock, John and Lestrade all grimace.

"You wouldn't be saying that if you'd been down there," John comments.

"Mrs. Hudson's always saying it just needs a little work," Marcus points out.

"With a bulldozer, maybe." John grins and Marcus rolls his eyes good-naturedly. "Hey, wait a minute," John says to Marcus. "Weren't you saying the other day that your old place is empty again?"

"Yeah, it is actually," Marcus replies, turning to Sherlock. "It's nothing special - a one bedroom basement flat - but it's alright."

"I wonder how Mr. Patel feels about the violin," John muses with a sly smile at Sherlock. "He's the landlord. Lives upstairs."

Sherlock smiles awkwardly.

"I can give you his number if you want?" Marcus suggests, already reaching for his phone.

Sherlock wants to protest, but Marcus is soon scribbling the number down on a spare business card and handing it over to Sherlock. Sherlock takes it with a mumbled 'thank you' and the conversation moves on again.

Sherlock feels a little lost. Social situations have never been his strong point - unless he's acting a part - and the banter between John, Marcus and Lestrade seems so well practiced and filled with inside jokes that Sherlock feels like a stranger. He knew coming back wasn't going to be easy, but he didn't realise it was going to be quite this hard, either.

There is a tap against his foot again and he looks over to see John watching him with something like concern.

"My round," John announces, getting to his feet. "Give me a hand, Sherlock?"

Sherlock follows John to the bar, his hands shoved awkwardly in his pockets. John orders the drinks and then leans against the bar, looking up at Sherlock.

"Bit too much?"

"Hmm?"

"You seem a bit... overwhelmed."

Sherlock shrugs dismissively. "It's been some time since I've been around other people."

John regards him for a moment, and then turns back to the bar to pay. He hands Sherlock both his drink and Lestrade's, then picks up his own and Marcus's.

"Just... take it easy, alright?" John says with a soft smile. "You look like you might sprain something, trying to be sociable."

Sherlock gives him a half-smile and follows him back to the table. He tries his best to pay some attention to the conversation as it goes on, but not with much luck, and he is ultimately relieved when Lestrade starts making noises about leaving. He excuses himself as well and, once he has seen Lestrade off, starts to wander idly towards Regents Park. It's about time he got to know London again - he doesn't think she, at least, will have changed too much in the intervening three years.

*

"Sherlock!" Sherlock can't help but smile at Molly's shocked outburst, but he rushes forward before she can drop the stack of papers she is carrying and guides her into the room.

"Molly."

"You're here. What are you doing here? Is it safe?" she gets out breathlessly.

"Yes, it's safe. I'm... home, now."

For a few seconds, Molly looks so excited she might burst and she even goes to reach out for him, but at the last minute she pulls back, biting her lip. "I'm so so glad. Have you seen John?"

"Yes," he says, amused by the fact that this seems to be everyone's first reaction. "Oh god, did he - did he take it okay? He was a real mess when you died... well, pretended to die."

"I don't think he completely hates me," Sherlock offers and Molly smiles again.

"Oh, have you met Marcus?" Molly suddenly asks, with such a sympathetic look that, just for a few seconds, he fears he has been too obvious. He quickly dismisses the idea - Molly may have shown herself to be incredibly perceptive on occasion, but he has guarded his feelings well, ever since he realised he had them. He suspects that even Mycroft is mostly unaware, although that's almost certainly a result of separation and, now that Sherlock is back in London, he doesn't expect it to last long.

"I have," he eventually answers.

"And?"

"And what?"

"Do you like him?" Molly asks.

"I hardly know him," Sherlock says evasively.

Molly gives up on that line of conversation and instead starts to tell him about a body that just came in that morning. Before he knows it, they're standing either side of the cadaver, inspecting a nasty rash across the man's chest. When he glances up, Molly is watching him with a soft smile, but she quickly schools her expression and makes to leave.

"I'll just, err, get you some coffee."

"No, no need," he gets out quickly. "Stay."

She looks a little surprised but nods and takes her place on the other side of the body once more. He gives her a stilted smile and goes back to work.

*

When John gets home from work it is with quiet anticipation of spending an evening on the sofa, watching a film. Marcus is working late, so John has already settled on some classic Bond (Marcus won't watch anything pre-Brosnan) and he's already looking forward to watching Connery smarm his way around the world. He is all set up and ready to go - DVD in the player, drink at his elbow - when his phone signals that he has a new message. He reaches over to the coffee table to pick it up, unlocking the front screen.

_Could use a medical opinion, if you're free. SH_

He laughs out loud, because once again it's as if Sherlock has never been away. John should probably be annoyed by the fact that Sherlock thinks he has any right to John's time anymore, but Sherlock's message brings back memories of chases and fights and puzzles and, for the first time in years, he misses that life. He hesitates for a moment, and then types his reply.

_Where are you?_

_Bart's._

_I'll be there in 20 mins._

He shoves his feet into his shoes, grabs his coat, and heads out. He gets a taxi across to Bart's and sends a text to Marcus during the journey, letting him know where he is. As he gets out of the cab, he happens to glance up at the roof almost out of habit, and he feels his stomach roll even after all this time. He shakes it off and makes his way into the building.

Sherlock is, as expected, in the morgue. He looks up as John enters and for a split second, he looks absolutely thrilled, before he turns his gaze back to the dead man on the table in front of him.

"Ah, John, you're here. Good."

Molly, perched on a stool opposite Sherlock, gives John a hesitant little wave as he approaches.

"So, what did you need me for?" John asks pleasantly.

"Take a look at this rash," Sherlock answers, gesturing towards the body.

John moves round beside Sherlock to get a better look at the discolouration covering most of the man's upper chest.

"Another case already?" John asks, mentally flicking through his knowledge of rashes and their causes.

"No, just something to pass the time."

John glances at Sherlock, one eyebrow cocked, and then turns back to the body. "What did he die of?"

"Heart attack," Molly pipes up.

"Hmm. Well, I might be wrong, but this looks a bit like a HIV rash. Probably didn't have anything to do with his death."

Sherlock looks at the body and makes a noise that can only signal boredom; John, God help him, has missed that noise more than is perhaps reasonable.

"I suggest you run a blood test," Sherlock tells Molly.

Molly leaves to do Sherlock's bidding and John shakes his head as he turns to Sherlock. He can't help but notice that he looks tired, with dark marks smudged under his eyes, although his expression is as alert as ever.

"Is there any sign of foul play?" John asks, still not sure of the reason for Sherlock's interest in the body.

"No, I told you, it was just something to do."

John watches him closely for a moment, and then laughs. "Are you really that desperate to get away from your brother?"

Sherlock looks momentarily surprised, but then he smiles. "Of course." 

"And you couldn't think of anything better than hanging around a morgue?"

"What do you suggest?"

John's rumbling stomach answers for him. "Dinner?"

"What about Marcus?" Sherlock asks with uncharacteristic hesitance.

"He's working."

Sherlock hums, and then gets to his feet decisively. "I know a lovely little French place not far from here."

It is a very nice French place and, as usual, Sherlock seems to know the owner. At least, that's what John assumes as Sherlock talks first to a waiter and then to a middle-aged woman who comes over, but as it's all in French he can't be sure. The woman eventually leaves and Sherlock turns his attention back to John.

"I recommend the duck a l'orange."

John smiles widely. "So, what did you do this time to get free food?"

"I helped her daughter."

"With?" John presses, and Sherlock looks uncomfortable for a second, but he seems to push past it.

"She was in trouble with a gang. Which is admittedly not necessarily what you associate with the South of France, but anyway, I was... in the area, and I was able to help out."

John remembers vague mentions of France when Sherlock had related what was probably a hugely edited account of how he'd spent the last three years. He wants to ask for more, but Sherlock's expression is rather strained so he lets it drop. He gets the feeling there will always be gaps, and he honestly can't decide if he's okay with that - he supposes he doesn't have much choice.

The waiter reappears and takes their orders, and once he's gone the silence stretches out for a few minutes; it's not quite comfortable - not the way it used to be. Eventually, John speaks up again.

"Have you thought anymore about Marcus's old flat?" he asks. "If you want to get out of your brother's that badly..."

"I've considered it, but I have to get my financial affairs in order first," Sherlock says with a tight-lipped smile. "It's not as easy as you'd think, reversing a death certificate."

John almost chokes on his wine as helpless laughter bubbles up inside his throat. "What, you mean you can't just turn up at the registry office and say, 'Look, I'm alive!'?"

"Sadly not."

"So, technically, you're still a dead man?"

"Technically," Sherlock agrees.

It's absurd, completely and utterly absurd, and he's certain it's the kind of situation that only Sherlock could get himself into. John breaks into a giggle and the low rumble of Sherlock's laughter joins him a moment later, a sound he hasn't heard in far too long.

Their amusement tails off eventually and John takes a sip of his wine, watching the other man over the rim of his glass before setting it back down again.

"If you need a loan or anything, to help you out-"

"No, I couldn't, I-"

"It's your money, anyway." Sherlock freezes and John gives him a slanting smile. "You left me all your money," he states softly.

"I did."

"I've hardly spent a penny of it," John admits, looking awkwardly off to one side. "I didn't want your money and I told your brother as much."

He still doesn't know what had upset him so much about getting Sherlock's estate, but he'd had several angry discussions with Mycroft, who'd refused to take the money back. In the end, John had put it in a savings account and left it there.

"I suppose I should give it back to you now."

"It's yours," Sherlock says solemnly.

"Don't be an idiot," John says. "You'd better work on reversing your Will as well."

Sherlock looks like he wants to protest, but in the end he acquiesces with a slight nod. It's a strange thing to behold, this new Sherlock, who is all quiet acceptance and awkward hesitance. It almost makes John miss the arrogant, mad bastard who shot the walls for fun. John can only hope that it's a temporary shyness brought on by guilt, perhaps, and an uncertainty about his own place; John wants the Sherlock he knew back - or at least the closest approximation he can get.

It has been an odd couple of years when he looks at it objectively. He has found love - found a partner he could happily spend the rest of his life with - but he has known all along that the bond he and Marcus share, strong though it is, has never been enough to fill in all the little parts that shrivelled up and died the day that Sherlock fell from the roof of St. Bart's. The link between John and Sherlock was forged out of adrenaline and fear and excitement; they were brothers in arms, effectively, and the very real threat of danger brought a closeness which John has only found in one other place - the Army. It was more than that, though, and even after far too much time spent dwelling on it, John has never been able to pin down exactly what it was about their friendship that made Sherlock's death feel like he'd lost everything.

It doesn't matter now, in any case, because Sherlock isn't dead and John will never not be grateful for that, however much the knowledge of the conspiracy burns in his chest. John has been extremely lucky, not for the first time in his life, and he knows never to look a gift horse in the mouth. He's not going to throw away a second chance out of spite.

"You know," John speaks up, drawing Sherlock's bright gaze to his. "I've still got some of your stuff in storage. Mycroft wouldn't take anything but your violin - 'spose I know why now - and there were a lot of things I didn't want to get rid of. Books and stuff, you know."

Sherlock looks a little moved by the thought, and it's strange to see sentiment so clearly written across his face. John wonders if he's just out of the habit of shutting himself off, of being around people he might have to hide it from. It's certainly not the first time John has seen emotion from his friend, but never has he witnessed such softness.

"Thank you," Sherlock finally says a little awkwardly, and then he goes back to picking at his dinner.

John doesn't think he's ever seen Sherlock eat as much as he has in the last few days either, but if it's going to fill out cheekbones that have become even sharper and shirts that aren't quite as taut, then it's all good in John's eyes. He smiles and tucks into his own food with relish - the duck was certainly a good recommendation.

As dinner passes, they seem to slip more and more into the comfortable, familiar habits of old: Sherlock makes witty - and sometimes cutting - remarks about their fellow diners, and John tries hard not to laugh or to marvel, so as not to encourage Sherlock or, God forbid, feed his ego. John doesn't try to curb this behaviour as much as he might have done several years ago, though, because with every smothered laugh or wide-eyed look of amazement from John, Sherlock becomes more animated, more outrageous - in truth, more like himself.

All too soon, dinner is over, and John can freely admit that it makes him a little sad that they are not heading back to Baker Street together. Instead, almost by magic, a black car appears alongside the kerb outside the restaurant and Sherlock scowls at it fiercely. John laughs.

"Come on, look at it this way, at least you don't have to pay for a cab. And you get to waste Mycroft's money on petrol."

"True," Sherlock answers, and then grins maliciously. "Would you like a ride home?"

"I'm going the opposite way to you."

"I know," Sherlock replies, looking far too pleased with himself.

John chuckles and, unable to resist the opportunity to get back at Mycroft in even this small way, climbs into the back of the car after Sherlock. Sherlock orders the driver to take the most scenic route he can think of to Baker Street and sits back in his seat, all smugness and satisfaction.

"You are ridiculous," John teases.

"It was your idea."

"Not quite what I meant," John counters.

Sherlock just shrugs and sits back to watch the city rush by. John watches the lights of Central London flicker across Sherlock's face and feels a wave of contentment. Sherlock is back where he should be, here in the heart of the capital, and John feels like his world has tilted back onto its axis.


	6. Chapter 6

_December 2011_

The cold of winter is starting to set in and John shuffles closer to Marcus, seeking out the warm press of his body in his half-asleep state. Marcus shifts against him, making himself more comfortable, but then his breathing levels out again as he falls back into a deep sleep. 

John is not quite asleep again when he hears the sudden crack of the front door opening. He tenses, instantly wide awake and listening out for any other sounds. He hears footsteps in the hallway and sits up swiftly. Marcus makes a questioning noise and turns slightly towards him, so John presses his fingers to Marcus's lips, urging him to stay quiet. In an instant, Marcus is fully awake and they both look towards the door as they hear a clatter coming from the living room.

John swings his feet over the side of the bed and pauses as Marcus presses a hand to his arm and gives him a look in warning. John nods and Marcus slides out of bed, following as John creeps towards the door. They pause at the door as John peeks out into the darkened hallway; he can't see anything but there are still faint noises coming from the living room. He glances at Marcus again and they sneak out into the hall.

Once they near the lounge, John catches his first glimpse of the intruder, bent over the sideboard, rifling through a drawer. He shares one last glance with Marcus and then, hoping to make the most of the advantage of surprise, he rushes the would-be burglar and tackles him to the floor.

The intruder is little more than a gangly teenager and there is only a brief struggle before John has him on his front, hands pinned behind his back.

"Oi!" the teenager complains.

"Looks like you chose the wrong flat to burgle," Marcus remarks, stepping forward and grinning at John as he pulls out his phone. "I'll call it in."

The burglar gives a little wriggle of protest but John's knee in the small of his back soon stops him.

"This is DC Morstan," Marcus says to the operator. "I've had a break-in and I need you to send someone over to fetch the offender."

Marcus gives his address and then hangs up, throwing his phone on the sofa.

"Just for the record, mate," Marcus says to the burglar, before pointing to John. "Ex-soldier." He then points to himself. "Policeman."

"Really not your day," John adds, finally lifting some of his weight off the intruder as Marcus gets his handcuffs and slips them around the teenager's wrists. John hauls him to his feet and pushes him onto the sofa.

"Sit."

"What about my rights?" the teenager sneers at Marcus.

"Right now, you have the right to shut up. When my colleagues get here, they'll do the rest."

The teenager just scoffs but falls silent and John and Marcus share a bemused look. John moves to Marcus's side and Marcus gives him a heated look.

"I probably shouldn't be so turned on by you tackling criminals like that," Marcus says under his breath and John gives him a sly smile.

"Ergh, are you gay?" the teenager sneers.

"Shut it," Marcus replies sternly. "Or I'll have you done for insulting a police officer."

The intruder falls into a sullen silence and they settle in to wait.

Twenty minutes later there is a knock at the door and Marcus goes to answer it. It's clear from Marcus's tone that he knows the two uniformed officers who appear in the living room, and John is pretty sure he recognises one of them - especially when he gives John the kind of disdainful look he is growing quite used to. He flicks a look from John to Marcus, and then joins his partner as they guide the teenager up from the sofa whilst reading him his rights.

"We'll need statements tomorrow," the other officer reminds Marcus and he nods, before following them out to the door. John lingers at the end of the hallway, watching as Marcus shuts the door behind them, frowning at the lock.

"Well, that's my lock fucked. I suppose I'm going to have to get a locksmith out now."

"Could be worse. At least he was a crap burglar," John says lightly and Marcus gives him a smile.

They go back into the living room as Marcus calls the locksmith and, once he's done, he flops down on the sofa next to John.

"Good job neither of us has got work in the morning."

John hums his agreement distractedly.

"What's up?" Marcus prompts.

"Hmm? Oh, just thinking."

"About?"

"Well, I think we might be about to be outed to Scotland Yard."

"Are you worried?"

"I'm not the one who has to work there."

Marcus seems to spend a moment contemplating that, and then he turns towards John and regards him seriously.

"I'm not ashamed of this - of us. I like being with you and I don't care who knows it."

John smiles, but his expression must reflect some of his anxiety because Marcus shifts a bit closer.

"Have you come out before?"

"Yes. Not to this many people, but... I'm not - It's not that," John gets out awkwardly. He is feeling relatively mellow about the fact that a lot of people are going to find out he's not as straight as he's made himself out to be in the past. "Look, I'm not a popular person at the Yard, and I just... I don't want you getting a lot of crap because you're with me."

"Too late for that."

"What?"

Marcus lets out a sigh. "I've had a couple of people have a go at me for hanging around with you."

"Why didn't you tell me?" 

"Because I honestly don't care," Marcus replies. "People can say what they want. It's not like it's going to change my mind about you."

John is stunned for a moment, and then a smile starts to creep its way on to his face and he reaches out for Marcus's hand, lacing their fingers together. "You're incredible."

Marcus just laughs and tugs him into a tender kiss.

*

John goes out for drinks with Lestrade three days later and he can see from the outset that Lestrade is about fit to burst. John plays along innocently, hiding his smiles in his drink, but when Lestrade sits down with their second pints, John finally gives in.

"Come on, out with it," John says.

Lestrade freezes with his drink halfway to his mouth. "Sorry, what?"

"You're dying to ask me about Marcus."

Lestrade raises his eyebrows as he lowers his drink back to the table, but then he shakes his head and laughs. "Am I that obvious?"

John grins in reply and Lestrade leans forward in his seat. "So?"

"So what?" John teases.

"So you and Marcus are... seeing each other."

"Yes."

"Since when?"

"About a month ago."

Lestrade runs a hand nervously over his mouth. "I, err, I thought you were straight?"

"Obviously not."

"You always used to make a point of saying you were straight."

"That's because everyone thought I was shagging _Sherlock_."

Lestrade hesitates, his gaze flicking between John and the tabletop. "And you... weren't?"

John thinks he should probably be slightly offended by the question, but he supposes it's only fair for people to start to wonder, given that he's just baffled them with one revelation. 

"No," John says. "He was my friend, nothing more." 

Lestrade nods, looking lost in thought for a moment, and then just like that he changes the subject to a recent case and John lets out a breath he hadn't even realised he was holding. He takes a sip of his drink and smiles contentedly as Lestrade continues his story.

*

"This is a really bad idea," John murmurs as the cab pulls up to the hotel.

"Shut up," Marcus says fondly, bending forward to pay the driver. "Out."

John climbs out and Marcus follows, stopping beside him and resting a hand on his back.

"I can't believe you made me come to your work's New Year's do."

"I want you here," Marcus replies firmly.

"You're outnumbered there," John comments. 

Marcus takes John by the arm and gently guides him to face him. "Look, if you really don't want to do this, we'll leave right now." 

He pauses and John lets out a little sigh, shaking his head. 

"Good. Because I am going to spend the evening with my boyfriend. I am going to eat far too many mini sausages, I'm going to get drunk on cheap vodka, and then I'm going to take you home and shag you into the bed, and if anyone has a problem with that, they can piss off."

John laughs softly. "Do you know how sexy you are when you're all riled up?"

"I'll make sure to save some for later, then."

John grins and then takes a deep breath and turns towards the building again. "Let's get this over with then."

Contrary to John's wildest imaginings, the function room does not fall silent as they walk in. In fact, apart from a couple by the door who shuffle out of their way, there is really no response to their entrance.

"Drink?" Marcus suggests, leaning in close to be heard over the low buzz of voices.

"God, yes."

They make their way to the bar, where they find Lestrade and a very pretty brunette deep in conversation. Lestrade spots them instantly and steps forward to greet them. He is already tipsy and gives them both a slightly wonky smile as he introduces his date, Lisa. She shakes both their hands and then excuses herself to the bathroom.

"Greg, you old dog, she's almost half your age," John teases.

"I'm celebrating my first New Year's as a free man in... too many bloody years. The decree absolute came through yesterday." Lestrade smiles slightly bitterly and John gives him a friendly pat on the shoulder.

"Anyway, I'm glad you both came," Lestrade says, suddenly turning serious. John had told him of his doubts just a few days ago and Lestrade had been quite outspoken in his displeasure that they would even think about not coming. "It's time to put this whole bloody year in the past and forget about it."

"Hear, hear," John agrees, lifting his glass and taking a drink.

Lestrade's date returns and the two of them go off to chat to a friend of Lestrade's, leaving John and Marcus at the bar. All in all, things seem to be going okay. A couple of people say 'hello', a couple more send a frown in John's direction, but there is no real drama until about halfway through the night.

Marcus is getting increasingly tipsy and leaning more and more on John as he does. His hand gestures are becoming a little more exaggerated and John can't help but grin.

"So, then I said- Why are you smiling at me?"

"No reason," John says with a laugh, his hand brushing affectionately over Marcus's hip. Marcus narrows his eyes but, before he can say anything, a figure looms beside them.

"You've got a lot of nerve being here, Watson."

It's one of the officers who came to arrest their burglar not so long ago - the one who wasn't happy to see John. He looks a little drunk, but mostly just angry.

"Look, I'm just here for a quiet night, so leave off."

"You're not welcome here. You're just as guilty as that freak Holmes."

John's fists clench, but Marcus presses a warning hand to his arm and steps forward. 

"Piss off, Hutchins," Marcus says, sobriety mostly returned. 

"You don't even know what you've got yourself into there," Hutchins hisses, gesturing at John. "He's a liar and a fake and-"

"You say one more word and you'll regret it," Marcus bites out. They have drawn something of a crowd by this point.

Hutchins scoffs. "What are you going to do about it, you little poof?"

John jumps forward just in time to grab Marcus before he decks the other officer. At the same time, Lestrade appears from God knows where and levels his most threatening look at Hutchins.

"I think it's time you went home, Hutchins, don't you?"

Hutchins does not look best pleased. "Yes, sir."

"I want to see you in my office first thing on Monday morning."

"Sir," Hutchins acknowledges reluctantly. He glares at John and Marcus once more, before finally turning away.

Lestrade turns then to the crowd. "Alright, people, move it along."

The crowd disperses and John finally lets go of Marcus's arms, giving them a quick rub as he does so. "You alright?"

Marcus straightens his shirt. "Not the first time I've had to put up with homophobic little shits."

Lestrade frowns. "Hutchins _is_ a little shit. You okay?" 

"I need another drink," Marcus says.

"This round's on me," Lestrade offers. "What are you drinking?"

They tell him and Lestrade goes off to get the drinks. Marcus runs a hand through his hair and lets out a huff of breath, obviously trying to wind down again. 

"Bit of fresh air?" John suggests and Marcus nods grimly.

John glances over to see that Lestrade has stopped to chat on his way to the bar, so he leads Marcus out to one of the fire exits. A couple of smokers are just coming back in, shivering slightly from the cold, and John pulls his jacket around himself tightly as they head out.

John leans against the wall as Marcus paces in frustration for a little while, before joining him. 

"I would kill for a fag right now."

"Since when do you smoke?" 

"I haven't for a year, but pricks like Hutchins make it really hard to remember why I gave up."

John reaches out and threads their fingers together. "How about because you don't want cancer?"

Marcus scoffs and John smiles, bringing their joined hands to his mouth.

"And you don't want to smell like an ashtray," he suggests. "Or taste like one." He catches Marcus's fingertip with his lips and Marcus's breath stutters. 

"I think I mentioned earlier how sexy you are when you're angry," John says in a low voice.

Marcus swallows visibly and John sucks his finger into his mouth. "I seem to have forgotten that," Marcus murmurs. "You'll have to remind me."

John smiles archly and flicks his tongue against Marcus's fingertip. The last traces of anger evaporate as Marcus fixes him with a lust-filled gaze. "I think we'd better go home."

John grins and releases Marcus's hand to press in close, his own erection throbbing at the fly of his trousers. "Why wait?"

He leans in and sucks at the tendon of Marcus's neck and Marcus makes a helpless noise. 

"There are hundreds of police officers inside and you want to risk a charge of public indecency," Marcus breathes. 

"We'd best be quick then." 

John drops to his knees and Marcus bites off a moan as John presses his mouth over the very obvious bulge in Marcus's trousers. 

*

"How is it possible that in this ridiculously tiny flat I still can't find my gloves?" Marcus complains, searching through the wardrobe.

"Maybe because you left them at mine?" John says, pulling on his shoes. Marcus curses and rises to his feet, shutting the wardrobe door with a huff.

"Remind me to bring them back, will you?"

John looks up at Marcus. "Or... you could not."

"That'd be a bit awkward every time I wanted them."

"I mean," John says, slowly, "You could not bring them back. You could keep them at mine. With the rest of your stuff."

Marcus looks at him askance and John laughs. "Which is a completely arse-about-face way of asking you to move in with me."

Marcus stills, his eyes widening ever so slightly.

"I know it's only been a few months," John continues, Marcus's silence spurring him on. "But you're always saying this place is too small and we're at mine half the time anyway and-"

"John," Marcus finally interrupts, stepping in between John's legs. "You can stop trying to persuade me. I don't need persuading, I just needed a second to get over the surprise." He smiles and John's whole body goes slack with relief. 

"So... is that a 'yes'?"

"Well, you know, I'll have to call all my other boyfriends and let them down gently..."

"Hilarious," John murmurs.

Marcus grins and reaches down to rest his hands on John's shoulders. "I'll let Mr. Patel know first thing tomorrow."


	7. Chapter 7

_July, 2014_

It doesn't get any easier, Sherlock finds. Emotion, once unleashed, continues to distract and frustrate him, and some days it's all he can do not to spend the whole day wallowing in disgusting self-pity. Sentiment has become a new and vicious master, sidelining his mistress - The Work - and forcing him to dance to its tune.

It has been almost three weeks since Sherlock returned, and in that time he has experienced a lifetime's worth of jealousy, and all the other messy emotions it brings with it. Just when he thinks he has control of himself, he is proven wrong by the merest mention of John and Marcus. It is like a wound that never quite heals, ripping him apart with only the slightest provocation. 

Yet, despite his treacherous heart, Sherlock cannot bring himself to hate Marcus. The more he sees of him, the more he sees just how irritatingly perfect he is for John. John has always thought of himself as the sensible one - it's easy to see where he gets that idea from after just one meeting with his highly-strung sister - but John is actually far from sensible. John is reckless, headstrong, sometimes overly emotional, and yet at other times far too stoic for his own good (a delightful enigma, even after all this time). Marcus is the perfect counterbalance: rational, but not coldly so; objective, but still prone to softer emotions. 

Marcus is, in addition, very good at his job. Sherlock deduced that right from the start, but now he has had the opportunity to see Marcus at work first-hand and, as he considers himself somewhat an expert on incompetent police officers, Sherlock is a little disheartened to find that Marcus is very capable. It's no surprise that he has been promoted, and he fulfils his new responsibilities with the minimum of fuss and drama. He is exactly the kind of police officer Sherlock prefers to work with.

It's with that contradiction in mind, then, that Sherlock is called in to look at the scene of a double murder in Highgate. The scene itself is a tastefully decorated dining room, the large mahogany table adorned not only with expensive silverware and the host's best china, but also with the blood of the two victims who are propped up in chairs at either end. Lestrade is off talking to his useless forensics team in the next room, trying to keep them out of Sherlock's way for five minutes, and Marcus is standing by the door, completely still and blissfully silent. 

Sherlock makes his way slowly around the corpses, and then the table, examining every inch. He can feel Marcus's eyes tracking him but, thankfully, he decides to hold his tongue on any inane observations or questions. Sherlock wonders idly if John has given him some pointers, but then forces his mind back to the problem at hand.

Sherlock finally moves away from the table, having seen enough to tell him that this was most likely a crime of passion committed by the dead man's mistress. Marcus straightens expectantly as Sherlock approaches. A childish part of Sherlock considers keeping quiet until Lestrade rejoins them, but then he'd have to wait around even longer, and, anyway, he likes to think he's beyond such pettiness.

"He had a lover. Probably younger - they usually are. She was among the guests that were here earlier in the evening, but she came back later. She killed the wife first - strangled with a some sort of belt or scarf, green fibres around the neck. The husband was stabbed not long after, one clean blow to the heart - probably a steak knife, judging by the wound. Husband was moved to the chair after he died."

Sherlock comes to a stop and Marcus lets out a huff of surprise, then his lips curl into a smile. 

"Anything else?"

"The lover's left-handed, that should make it easier to single her out."

Marcus raises his eyebrows in faintly baffled disbelief. "Amazing."

It doesn't give him quite the same rush as John's awed praise, but it's a pleasant change to have his deductions met with something other than suspicion and scorn. 

"If you need anything else, you know how to get hold of me," Sherlock says, preparing to leave. "Although I should think this is straightforward enough for the Met to handle."

"I think we'll manage the wrap-up, yeah," Marcus says, his tone warm with amusement. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

Sherlock is at the door when Marcus turns to him. "Oh, wait a sec, there was something I wanted to mention to you."

Sherlock stops with one hand on the frame.

"It's John's birthday next Thursday. I'm planning a little get-together, just dinner and drinks. John will probably invite you himself, but I just wanted to grab you while I had the chance."

"I see." It sounds like an evening of hell, surrounded by people John just about calls his friends. It would also undoubtedly involve having to watch John and Marcus together, which is something he has tried to avoid as much as possible.

"John said you weren't really into that sort of thing, but I know he'd be really chuffed if you could come."

Sherlock, fool that he is, cannot bring himself to say no. "Get John to text me the details."

"Great," Marcus says. "And thanks again."

Lestrade appears in the doorway at that point, looking at Sherlock expectantly.

"Marcus has all the details," Sherlock explains. "Really, Lestrade, I think even Anderson might've stood a chance at working this one out. It was incredibly obvious."

Lestrade rolls his eyes and Sherlock gives them both a short goodbye before leaving them to finish up.

*

"I'm glad you came," John says, leaning against the bar next to Sherlock. 

"It's your birthday," Sherlock remarks, because it really is as simple as that - he wouldn't have missed a chance to be with John on his special day.

"Who had to remind you?" John asks with a grin - teasing, obviously, but Sherlock can't help but be a little offended. Something of his feelings must show in his expression because John gives him a strange look. "Come on, you don't do birthdays. You threw a strop when I got you a birthday card!"

"I don't do my birthdays," Sherlock mumbles petulantly. "Or Mycroft's."

"Well I'm honoured that my birthday is an exception," John remarks, the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile as he takes a sip of his drink.

"I suppose you won't want your present then," Sherlock says airily. "Given you seem to think I have no interest in your birthday."

John turns to him with a look of pleased surprise. "You got me a present?"

"It's tradition, so I'm told."

John watches him expectantly, and Sherlock makes him wait a few more seconds before finally fishing the white envelope from his inside pocket. He smoothes his fingers over it nervously, and then hands it to John. John smiles and opens it carefully, before sliding the tickets out. His eyes widen with shock as they flick back up to Sherlock.

"How on earth did you get these?"

"I was owed a favour," Sherlock says - it's mostly true anyway.

Marcus appears at that moment and takes in John's surprised look with a raised eyebrow. "Look," John says, thrusting envelope towards Marcus. "Tickets to the premiere of the new Bond in a few months' time."

"I didn't even realise there was a release date yet," Marcus comments, with an impressed look.

"Only if you know who to ask," Sherlock explains.

John grins as Marcus hands back the envelope. "Thank you, Sherlock. Really, this is... Well, I'm a bit lost for words. This is an amazing present."

John just shakes his head in disbelief as he looks at the tickets again and Sherlock smiles softly. Marcus looks up at Sherlock and Sherlock quickly schools his expression as Marcus studies him, unsure of the reason for the scrutiny.

"I really can't wait," John says, and Sherlock forces his gaze back to his friend. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

John's grin turns sly as he turns towards Marcus. "You never know, I could meet Daniel Craig and we could have a sordid affair."

"Have you seen Rachel Weisz?" Marcus asks, laughing.

"Are you saying she's prettier than me?" 

"No comment."

"I'm just going to get a drink," Sherlock cuts in, uncomfortable in the face of their teasing banter. John looks up sharply, but Sherlock is already moving away.

Sherlock gets himself a large whiskey and downs most of it in one go. 

"Rough day?"

He turns to find a tall, fair-haired man watching him with a smile. Sherlock makes a non-commital sound and finishes his drink in one large gulp, before signalling to the bartender for another.

"Let me get this one for you."

Sherlock's attention is drawn unwillingly back to the man beside him. "George Bateman," the man says, his friendly look tinged with the subtlest hint of desire. Sherlock's eyes flick over him quickly - single, just out of a serious relationship, probably looking for a one night stand - and George now makes no attempt to hide his obvious interest as he returns the look brazenly.

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock replies, but pays for his own drink once it arrives.

Oh, it's tempting. He's been having to watch John and Marcus together all evening, and it's enough to make him consider - just for a second - the oblivion of a night of passion. George isn't unattractive, and Sherlock's libido is being annoyingly distracting of late, and yet...

"You here on your own?" George asks.

Sherlock's gaze skitters away over George's shoulder, to where John and Marcus are talking to Mike Stamford, pressed almost hip to hip.

"No," he eventually says, drawing his eyes back to George and giving him a (fake) apologetic smile. "Sorry."

"You have a good evening then, Sherlock Holmes," George says, before leaving Sherlock to nurse his drink in silence. He's an idiot - a hopeless fool and a masochist. Sometimes he even wonders if coming back was the right thing to do.

"Alright?" 

Sherlock starts at Lestrade's voice and stands up a little straighter. "Fine."

"You know, I haven't seen you this out of it in ages."

Sherlock turns to level Lestrade with a frown. "I'm not on anything, if that's what you're trying to insinuate," he gets out defensively. Surprisingly, perhaps, he hasn't even considered the bliss of chemical relief.

"I wouldn't dream of suggesting it," Lestrade says sarcastically, but his expression softens with relief. "So, I hear you're finally moving."

Sherlock nods; he's finally given in and arranged to move into Marcus's old flat - anything is better than sharing a house with Mycroft (it was bad enough when they were children). 

"I bet you'll be glad to have some space to yourself."

Sherlock just hums and, sensing his mood, Lestrade doesn't try to continue the conversation. Lestrade orders himself a drink and leans against the bar next to Sherlock, looking out over the crowd and leaving Sherlock to the mess of thoughts and feelings constantly plaguing him.

*

"Well, you've definitely made this place your own," John calls, taking in the familiar detritus of Sherlock's genius. The flat had seemed small when Marcus was here, but filled with Sherlock's various belongings it now seems to resemble some sort of rabbit warren filled to the brim with God only knows what.

John wanders back into the kitchen, where Sherlock is making coffee (a rarity in itself). The kitchen is filled with more scientific than culinary equipment, and it's already looking more cluttered than 221b ever did. John wonders if his presence had in fact had some sort of restraining influence that he hadn't noticed before.

"Maybe you should have kept some of your stuff in storage," John suggests with a smile, taking the mug Sherlock holds out to him.

"Nonsense. I need it."

"All of it?" John remarks, one eyebrow raised archly.

"Yes, all of it," Sherlock snaps with an impatient wave of his hand. "It just needs tidying."

John smiles into his cup and takes a mouthful of coffee. "Do you like it though?" John asks.

"It's infinitely better than staying with my brother."

"I bet you hardly ever saw him," John teases.

"That's not the point. The whole place has a horrible aura of... Mycroft."

John laughs. "Yes, I remember."

"When have you been in his house?"

John sobers, his fingers twitching against his mug and, before he even has a chance to say anything, he sees that perceptive gaze sharpen with realisation before Sherlock pales and looks away awkwardly. "Of course."

Eager to dispel the melancholy seeping over them, John speaks up again. "Well, you're right, it really is shockingly Mycroft. All that armour and tapestries, it's like walking into a medieval court."

Sherlock gives the barest hint of a smile, but it is enough, and John wanders back through to the living room, Sherlock behind him.

"So, come on, tell me all about the case with the ferret," John says, settling on the sofa.

"I'm sure Marcus has told you all about it."

"But I want to hear your side of the story," John insists, and Sherlock looks pleased. He's gone back to hiding his feelings for the most part, but there are still times - usually when he and John are alone - that those softer emotions slip through the cracks. John savours them, glimpses of that often-denied sentimentality, now precious in their rarity.

Sherlock launches into a story that is already broadly familiar to John, having indeed heard it from Marcus, but only Sherlock can explain his jumps of logic in a way that doesn't make them sound completely unreal. It's probably a measure of how quickly John has got used to being around Sherlock again that most of what the other man says makes perfect sense, even when it's completely extraordinary.

"Please tell me you got a tetanus shot afterwards," John says once Sherlock is finished.

"I'm not an idiot," Sherlock counters, idly picking at the bandage wrapped around his hand. The ferret in question had apparently given him a rather nasty bite.

"Good. It would be a real shame for you to come back from the dead, only to be killed off by a ferret."

Sherlock just rolls his eyes and it makes John smile. Rebuilding their friendship has been a slow process - and is still ongoing - but it has got to a stage now where he feels secure once more, and he can think about those three long years without the anger and doubt and hurt. There are still some hard edges to be smoothed over, some areas where they no longer fit together as they once did, but by and large John feels like he has regained his best friend; he feels whole once more.


	8. Chapter 8

_March 2012_

"Yoo-hoo!"

Marcus startles and pulls quickly out of their kiss, turning towards the door, where Mrs. Hudson is looking around at the boxes scattered across the living room. It's not the first interruption of the day - they've already had one (very much unwanted) visit from Mycroft, which came to a very swift end, and one visit from Lestrade.

"We are definitely getting locks on the door," Marcus whispers, before calling out: "Hello, Mrs. Hudson."

John echoes Marcus's greeting and Mrs. Hudson gives them a little wave.

"Hello. Hope I'm not interrupting," she says pleasantly as she steps into the room. "Just wanted to make sure you were getting settled in alright."

"Yes, just about squeezing everything in," Marcus jokes.

"Well, luckily John doesn't have a lot of things. You should have seen it when Sherlock was here - there was mess all over the place, and _oh_ , the experiments!"

John smiles fondly at the memory.

"Anyway, I brought you up some stew," Mrs. Hudson says, gesturing to the tupperware in her hand. "You'll be hungry from all that lifting."

"Thank you," John says, stepping forward to take the tub from her, but she waves him away good-naturedly and potters into the kitchen to set it down on the side. As she puts it down, she looks through to the closed door of the downstairs bedroom and then turns back towards them with a slight frown. 

"You're not using the other bedroom?" she asks softly. 

"My room's fine," John answers in a slightly strained voice. He'd thought about it - Sherlock's room is bigger - but there's the problem: he still thinks of it as Sherlock's room. 

John hasn't been in there for a long time, not since he forced himself to go through Sherlock's belongings and decide what would go to charity, or the tip, and what would go into storage. That is a day best forgotten, filled with grief and frustration and just a little bit too much whiskey to take the edge off. He'd ended up falling asleep on the floor by Sherlock's bed, a random book on forensics under his head and tear tracks etched across his cheeks. 

The next day, he'd overseen the army of lackeys Mycroft sent over as they slowly emptied the room, box by box, until there was nothing left but the furniture and a giant pile of Sherlock's case notes. He'd stripped the bed, thrown the bedding in the bin, and then shut the door behind him. It's remained untouched ever since. Even now, he can't bring himself to treat it like any other room.

"Well, anyway, I'd best let you get on," Mrs. Hudson says, pulling John from his daze. "Let me know if you need anything."

"We will do," Marcus assures her, walking her to the door.

"Night then, boys."

They bid her goodnight and she bustles off down the stairs. Marcus moves to stand in front of John, regarding him with concern. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," John says with a weak smile. "Honest."

Marcus doesn't look like he believes it, but he doesn't push. He lays a hand on John's arm and gives it a brief squeeze, and then moves away to unpack one of the boxes. John watches him for a little while, but then shakes off his melancholy and goes to help.

*

John lets himself in to the flat - it still feels weird having locks - and shuts the door behind him. He takes off his jacket and hangs it up on the coatstand. Marcus is nowhere to be seen.

"Marc?" John calls.

He rounds the corner into the kitchen, and his eyes are instantly drawn to the open door of Sherlock's bedroom - old bedroom. He forces himself forward and stops on the threshold.

Marcus is sitting on the edge of the bed, one of Sherlock's notebooks on his lap. He looks up and guilt creeps into his expression.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-"

"It's fine."

"It's obviously not - you're standing at parade rest."

As soon as he realises, John shakes it off, takes a deep breath and walks across the room to join Marcus on the end of the bed. 

"This is your home too," John gets out. "You're allowed to go in any room you like."

There is a moment of silence and then Marcus gestures to the book in his lap. "I didn't realise what these were," he says, with a wave towards the box it had come from. "I should've asked you - I'm sorry."

"Don't apologise," John says. "Really, don't." He takes a breath and lets it out slowly. "It's about time someone treated this room like, well, a room, instead of some kind of... memorial."

Marcus casts his gaze around the room. "It's a nice room."

"And in surprisingly good condition," John says with a smile. "Mainly because it was the only room Sherlock _didn't_ do experiments in. In fact, he didn't spend a lot of time in here at all."

Marcus's arm curves around his waist, but he doesn't say anything and John is glad for the quiet. It's getting easier to remember Sherlock without the memories bringing nothing but pain. He takes the notebook from Marcus and flips idly through the pages.

"Did you get a chance to read this?"

"Not really. I opened it up to see what it was and then spent about five minutes trying to decipher the handwriting."

John laughs and flips back to the first page. He's more than used to Sherlock's scrawl and he skims over the first few lines. 

"I remember this. What did I call it on the blog? 'The Blind Banker', that was it."

"Was that the one with the hairpin?"

John stills and turns to Marcus with a slightly surprised look. "You've read my blog."

"Of course," Marcus admits with a crooked smile. "Background research, you know?"

"You did background research on me? When was this?"

"As soon as I knew your name."

John grins. "Stalker."

"Well, the Yard wasn't exactly a great source of unbiased information."

John frowns and Marcus's arm tightens almost imperceptibly around his waist. John fiddles with the notebook in his hands, smoothing his fingers over soft moleskin. 

"I have more notes," he says after a short silence. "Things that I didn't get round to writing up. If you want, you could read them."

"I'd like that, but... Are you sure?"

"Yes." John nods decisively. "Anyway, I think my writing's marginally better than Sherlock's."

"What, your messy doctor's scribble?" Marcus teases.

John grins and Marcus gives John's leg a gentle squeeze. 

"Let's get dinner on, I'm starving."

*

"John?" Marcus calls from the living room.

"In here."

It seems to take a moment for Marcus to work out where John is, but then he appears on the threshold of Sherlock's bedroom - no, John corrects himself, the other bedroom. It doesn't belong to anyone anymore. 

"Alright?" Marcus asks, hovering by the doorway.

"I've been thinking. We- we should use this room. It's bigger... and nicer."

Marcus narrows his eyes at John and moves forward to stand by the bed.

"Our room's fine," Marcus suggests quietly.

"No," John returns, letting out a quick huff of breath. "It's been a year. It's not like he's coming back."

"John, you don't have to do this."

"I do," John insists, reaching out to press his hand to Marcus's hip, calming himself with the simple touch. "I... This is the last thing. It's time to stop keeping this room as a shrine to his memory. It's stupid for us to be all the way upstairs when there's a better bedroom down here."

"Look, why don't you sleep on it?" 

"I already have."

Marcus lets out a low hum and his mouth twists into something like a grimace. "Only if you're sure."

"I am," John says firmly.

Marcus doesn't look completely convinced but he doesn't push any further and he leans down to press a kiss to John's lips.

Within the next few days, their belongings slowly migrate downstairs until finally, four days later, they climb into the newly-made bed in their new room. 

"It's quieter in here," Marcus murmurs.

"Further from the street."

Marcus shifts closer to press his mouth to John's shoulder. "Love you."

"I love you too," John says, drawing him up into a gentle kiss. 

When they part, Marcus sinks back down to mouth at John's neck in a lazy tease. "Ready to christen this bed?"

John laughs softly, but flips Marcus onto his back and kisses him, hands smoothing gently down his side. 

They make love slowly, reverently, and afterwards they curl up together. Marcus falls asleep quickly but John stays awake for some time, staring blindly at the ceiling until his eyelids eventually grow heavy and he is pulled down into drowsiness.

John awakens in the middle of the night with a dry throat and wet eyes, and sits up slowly, trying not to wake Marcus. It's the first time he's dreamt about Sherlock - or, more accurately, Sherlock's death - in months, and it's surely no coincidence that he is sleeping in what was once Sherlock's bed. He lets out a long, shaky breath and runs a hand over his face. 

"Mpf- wha's wrong?" Marcus murmurs, his voice thick and slurred with sleep.

"Nothing, just a bad dream," John whispers. "Go back to sleep."

Marcus does so, but John is too worked up to join him. He eventually gives up and slides out of bed, making his way through to the dark living room. He sinks into an armchair and rests his forehead against his hand. He's getting better - finally starting to properly come to terms with Sherlock's death - but he sometimes wonders if he will ever be the same as he was. It feels like he's missing a part of himself, and he doesn't think he's ever going to get it back.

John stays up until the early hours of the morning and eventually falls asleep in the chair. He has an uncomfortable twinge in his neck the next morning, but he feels remarkably clear-headed. Marcus says nothing about his nightly movements as they sit down to breakfast, and it is John who breaks the comfortable silence.

"I want to clear Sherlock's name."

Marcus regards him for a moment, chewing thoughtfully on his toast before he speaks up. "What can I do to help?"

John smiles. "I might need some evidence from inside Scotland Yard."

Marcus nods and goes back to his breakfast, and John feels suddenly lighter, happier. He's going to get the truth out there, no matter what it takes.

*

_February 2013_

The news is everywhere that morning. John sits and watches the BBC News ticker for an embarrassingly long time, wanting to be sure he's not seeing things. But no, there it is again.

_'Fake' genius Sherlock Holmes proved innocent_.

He sees the same thing splashed over the morning paper, and even hears snippets of conversation along the same lines on the Tube. John suspects this must be Mycroft's influence, but there are certainly enough (begrudgingly-made) statements from Scotland Yard to make it quite likely that their press office is responsible.

John is relieved. It has been a long process, has almost seen both Marcus and Lestrade facing disciplinary action for their involvement, but it was worth it in the end: Sherlock is no longer a criminal in the eyes of the law - or the public. The ironic thing is that the man himself probably wouldn't have given a toss either way, but it was something John needed to do. His friend's name is finally free from the association of fraud, his memory no longer sullied by untruths.

As John treads carefully through the graveyard, he feels like the heavy weight of sorrow has been lifted from his shoulders, and he can remember Sherlock with fondness and affection. He approaches the familiar dark headstone and stops about a foot from it, falling easily into something approximating parade rest. His eyes trace the lines of Sherlock's name, and then drop to the grass around it, which has grown out over the last few months, covering the bottom third of the stone. Two winters come and gone without Sherlock. John can hardly believe how quickly the time has passed.

"A good day today," he murmurs, head bowed. "If you were a ghost, this would be the bit where you go over to the other side. No unfinished business here." John laughs at his own silliness, then falls silent. 

He stands there for several more minutes, head bowed and eyes closed, caught up in memories he'd almost forgotten - heads in the fridge and bullet holes in the wall and violins screeching in the middle of the night. It feels like a lifetime ago. He finally raises his head and, with a little nod, turns and weaves his way back towards the gate.

There is a sleek black car waiting for him and John grits his teeth and gets in. He probably should've expected this. Mycroft himself is inside, looking much the same as ever as he signals to the driver to move off. They sit in excruciating silence for a couple of streets, but John is not going to be the first to break.

"I wanted to thank you," Mycroft finally says, although he doesn't even glance in John's direction. John doesn't have to ask what he's talking about.

"I wouldn't've had to clear his name if you hadn't help dirty it in the first place." It is still a sore point, two years after the fact. John looks over at Mycroft, but of course that Holmesian mask remains perfectly blank. Not for the first time, John considers punching him square in the nose to see if that gets a reaction. 

There is silence once more and John clenches his hand into a tight fist. "Is that it?"

"Would you like me to make small talk? Perhaps I should ask you about your job at the clinic? Or about Marcus? He's certainly making an impression. I expect he'll be promoted soon."

"I thought I asked you to stop spying on me. And especially to stop spying on Marcus." John takes a steadying breath. "If you hadn't noticed, I have no connection to you anymore, and therefore you have no excuse to keep tabs on me."

"You were my brother's only friend."

"I _was_. Two years ago. It's not like you to be so sentimental," John says harshly.

Mycroft purses his lips, but doesn't deign to reply and it gives John a rush of satisfaction like only silencing a Holmes can. The car comes to a stop and when John looks out of the window, he sees that they're back at Baker Street.

"Good day, John."

John forces himself not to reply in the manner he wants and climbs out of the car, taking childish pleasure in slamming the door behind him. Mycroft's presence seems to have successfully overridden all the good feeling of the morning. 

John climbs the stairs to their flat and finds Marcus half-asleep on the sofa, although he looks up when John comes in. "You look like crap, why aren't you in bed?" John says with a smile.

"I'm going. I just wanted to wait for you to come back." Marcus pushes himself to his feet. "Big day today," he says as he draws level with John.

"Yeah, big enough to warrant a visit from my favourite kidnapper apparently."

Marcus grimaces, and John pulls him in close, pressing their foreheads together. "I'm just glad it's over. I couldn't have done it without you."

"It was the right thing to do."

John smiles and kisses him, before pulling back and squeezing his shoulders. "Now, bed. Before you collapse."

Marcus winds his arms around John's waist and gives him a lascivious grin. "Fancy joining me later for a celebration?"

John laughs and presses another kiss to his lips. "Go and sleep. Doctor's orders."

Marcus extracts himself with a drowsy smile and goes through to their bedroom, shutting the door behind him. John turns the television on and pauses with his hand on the remote control as the headline flashes up on the screen once more.

_SHERLOCK HOLMES INNOCENT_


	9. Chapter 9

_September 2014_

The door closes behind Marcus and, a moment later, he joins John in the kitchen.

"Evening."

"Just in time for tea," John tells him, pulling another cup from the cupboard.

"God, I need it."

John looks over at Marcus. He looks knackered. "Busy day?"

"You could say that. When exactly did I get appointed Official Sherlock Handler?"

John snorts and turns to face him. "That bad?"

"He made me stand in a skip for an hour, holding all sorts of disgusting things he dug out."

John can't help but laugh at the look on Marcus's face. 

"He told everyone else to piss off," Marcus continues. "But apparently he decided I needed to stay. Lestrade looked far too pleased with himself, the bastard."

"He must like you. Sherlock, that is."

"I got the feeling I was more a useful pair of hands," Marcus remarks.

"Yeah, that sounds about right." John grins, more relieved than he will let on. He'd been worried about how Sherlock would take to Marcus, but if Sherlock is treating him like part of the furniture, it's probably good news. It's almost a sign of respect, coming from him. John turns back to finish making the tea.

"I think he misses you," Marcus says after a moment.

"Really?" John isn't convinced - after all, Sherlock survived well enough without him for three years. He hands Marcus his tea and leans back against the worktop with his own.

"I dunno, sometimes he just looks around as if he was expecting someone else to be there."

John huffs out a breath in amusement. "Probably not getting enough praise. Tell him he's brilliant a couple of times and he'll be fine."

Marcus laughs and takes a sip of his tea, the lines of his face softening as he finally relaxes after what has seemingly been a tiring day. 

"I suppose he's still a bit off," John says with a slight frown. Hard to say though, isn't it? People change over three years, but he just sometimes seems... not quite himself." 

"He was acting a bit strangely at the pub the other night." 

John just hums in response. In all honesty, he was surprised Sherlock had joined them for their usual Thursday-night drink at all, especially after that one rather awkward visit when he'd first come back. It probably hadn't helped that Lestrade had pulled out at the last minute, leaving Sherlock with the two of them. No-one enjoyed being the third wheel and, although John had tried his best not to make Sherlock uncomfortable, his friend had been on edge all night. 

"So, what's for dinner?" Marcus asks, changing the subject and drawing John from his reverie.

John thinks for a moment. He really can't be arsed to cook, and he suspects neither can Marcus. "Takeaway?" 

"Yeah, sounds good. I'll get the menus."

*

Sherlock has no idea why he decided to come to Marcus's birthday party, of all things. Marcus and John had both invited him separately, but it had been obvious that they half expected him not to turn up. It had been tempting, but at the last minute he'd forced himself out of his flat and walked the short distance to Baker Street.

Now he's standing by the window, alone, nursing a glass of whiskey and watching the other partygoers with a sort of bemused detachment. His gaze flicks across the room to where John and Marcus are talking to someone who, judging by the resemblance, must be Marcus's brother. They look happy - don't they always - and he feels a little bitter just watching them, but he thinks he might finally be getting used to the sight because it doesn't hurt as much as it once did. His gaze slides away just as a ginger-haired woman approaches him.

"I don't suppose you smoke, do you?" she asks.

"No." What he doesn't say is that he would kill for a cigarette right now, but it wouldn't be a sensible idea - one just wouldn't be enough.

"Damn." She has the obvious tics of a smoker suffering from nicotine withdrawal. "I'm Sasha, by the way. Marcus's sister." 

"Sherlock," he mumbles in return.

"Ah, so you're the famous detective. I've heard all about you."

"Have you?" Sherlock says, more out of politeness than any real interest.

"Yeah, Marcus talks about you all the time."

Sherlock looks at her in surprise. "Does he?"

"Of course." She laughs pleasantly. "He says you're brilliant."

Sherlock doesn't really know what to say to that. He tolerates Marcus because he is competent and fairly intelligent, but he's never been quite sure what the policeman thinks of him. He glances over at Marcus and John again. His gaze lingers a moment too long.

"They're a ridiculously perfect couple, aren't they?"

Sherlock isn't sure what his face does, but when he turns back, Sasha is giving him an uncomfortably piercing look. He clears his throat and looks out over the room again.

"Maybe you should see Inspector Lestrade about a cigarette. He'll say he hasn't got any, but just ask him about the stash in his inner coat pocket."

With that, he slips away, making his way through the room and out towards the stairs. He climbs up to the second floor, where it is a cooler and a little quieter, and sits on the top step. He should've learned by now that these sorts of social gatherings really aren't his thing - never havebeen. The only good thing about this one was the chance to see John, but even then he'd only spoken to his friend briefly, as John was occupied preparing drinks and mingling. 

Suddenly, there are footsteps heading up the stairs and Sherlock raises his head just in time to see John rounding the corner. John comes to a stop and grins at him.

"Hiding?" he teases.

"Of course not. Just taking a moment to..." 

When Sherlock is unable to finish his sentence, John laughs. "Thought as much. I'm glad you came though. I know you hate this kind of thing."

Sherlock shrugs awkwardly. 

"We'll make a social butterfly out of you yet," John says with a wide smile. "Anyway, I'd best get back to it."

Sherlock gives a vague wave.

"Want me to bring you anything?"

"I'm fine, thank you."

John smiles and goes back downstairs again, leaving Sherlock to his thoughts. Mostly these consist of musing upon just how different he and John are. He wonders that he hasn't noticed this before now.

*

The next day, John stops by Sherlock's flat. Sherlock is in the middle of examining a crystal formation under the microscope, so it takes him a little longer to notice that John is twitching almost nervously. He also keeps opening his mouth as if to say something, and then changing his mind and closing it again

"What is it?" Sherlock finally gets out impatiently. John startles guiltily and shuffles his feet.

"Nothing."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Surely you've learnt by now that you really can't lie very well. Not to me, anyway."

John purses his lips and shuffles his feet again. Sherlock is on the verge of saying something rude when John finally speaks up.

"Do you... like Marcus?"

This is not a conversation Sherlock had ever imagined having. He turns back to his experiment, aiming for a tone somewhere between bored and nonchalant when he replies. "You know I appreciate competence."

"That's not what I meant." 

Sherlock sighs. "He's passingly not tedious, I suppose."

"God, you really enjoy making my life difficult, don't you?" John gets out, although he sounds like he might be joking. Sherlock turns towards him, just to check. John rubs a hand across his face and then meets Sherlock's gaze.

"It's just... Sasha mentioned something-"

"Sasha?"

"Marcus's sister. You talked to her yesterday."

"Oh yes, the smoker."

"Yes, the smoker and - can you please just let me talk for a minute? This is awkward enough as it is. I mean, you're my friend and I... I want you to be happy, of course I do, but I..."

John trails off again and Sherlock lets out an impatient noise. "Really, John, would you just spit it out already!"

"Are you in love with Marcus?" John blurts out.

Silence falls over them. Sherlock is dumbfounded as John watches him carefully, looking almost concerned and, for a moment, Sherlock has to fight back hysterical laughter. He clears his throat and holds John's gaze.

"No, John, I can assure you, I am not in love with Marcus."

"You're not?" John says, relief soaking into his voice.

"Of course I'm not," Sherlock scoffs, turning back to his microscope. "I'd thank you not to listen to whimsical ideas concocted by romantic young women who've only met me for a grand total of thirty-five slightly awkward seconds."

John snorts with laughter and Sherlock's lips twitch into a smile. 

"I did think it was a bit of a ridiculous idea," John concedes.

"I have no interest in your boyfriend, except in his role as a police officer. Happy now?"

"You know, I'm not sure if that's better or worse."

Sherlock's eyes flick to John, taking in his grin, and then back to his microscope. "I hope you didn't disturb me just for this."

"Oh shut up, you grumpy git."

Sherlock smiles, and turns his attention back to his experiment. 

*

"Remind me to tell your sister she's mental," John says as he and Marcus are getting ready for bed later that day.

"Oh?"

John pulls on his pyjama bottoms and a T-shirt and climbs into bed. "I may have embarrassed myself today, all because of her."

"Now I'm intrigued," Marcus says with a smile, sliding in next to him.

John almost doesn't want to say, embarrassed that he had so easily believed Sasha's ridiculous notion about Sherlock.

"Well, I don't know how... but she somehow convinced me that Sherlock was..." John can feel himself flushing and Marcus raises an eyebrow in amusement.

"Sherlock was what?"

"In love with you."

Marcus laughs. "Where did she get that idea from?"

"I dunno. She said she was speaking to him about us and he looked a bit... lovesick."

Marcus laughs again. "I can't imagine Sherlock being lovesick."

All too easily, John remembers the heavy silences and haunted violin melodies of the man who believed Irene Adler to be dead. 

"I can't believe you actually believed her," Marcus continues, oblivious, nudging John in the side. "You know Sasha's a wind-up merchant."

"She seemed serious this time," John explains with a shrug. "And then I was thinking about how you said Sherlock was treating you lately and... Anyway, it doesn't matter. He declares he has no interest in you whatsoever except as a policeman."

"You actually asked him?" Marcus exclaims incredulously.

"Well, I thought he might want to get it off his chest." John gives a halfhearted shrug and then smiles widely. "Most excruciating conversation of my life."

"I can imagine. The most antisocial man in the universe and you ask him if he fancies your boyfriend."

"Well, I didn't say that exactly-"

"And you didn't think he could just as easily be in love with someone else? Someone that's not me?"

There's something in Marcus's tone, and John frowns. "I don't think so. I... I honestly don't know, I mean... it's Sherlock."

Marcus nods absently, but he looks like he wants to say more.

"Why? Do you think-"

"No, of course not," Marcus cuts in, his expression softening as he smiles. "You know him better than anyone."

John smiles, although the sudden shift has unsettled him slightly.

"Anyway, I'm pretty sure there's only one person Sherlock is capable of being in love with."

"Who's that?"

"Himself." Marcus's lips stretch into a sly grin and John laughs. 

"You're probably right there."


	10. Chapter 10

_June 2013_

John's phone rings just as he's leaving the clinic and he fishes it out of his pocket. The display tells him it's Lestrade calling.

"Hello?"

"John, thank God, I've been trying to get hold of you for an hour."

"I was at the clinic. What's going on?"

"Marcus is in hospital."

"What happened?" John gets out, his pulse spiking. "Is he alright?"

"He's fine, he just fell through some rotten stairs during a raid. A couple of broken ribs and concussion, but he's fine."

John's breath leaves him in a rush and the the relief makes him almost dizzy. He leans against the wall, forcing himself to take deep breaths. "Which hospital?" he asks Lestrade.

"Royal London."

John hangs up and hails the nearest taxi. The journey takes too long - far too long - but finally he's racing inside the hospital and skidding to a stop at the reception in A&E. The receptionist points him in the direction of Marcus's room and he rushes down the corridor.

He finally finds the room and hurries inside. Lestrade stands up as John enters and gives him a tired smile, slipping silently from the room. John's eyes tick over to Marcus, who is watching him with a sleepy smile. John can't help but check him over with a doctor's gaze as he approaches the bed and takes Marcus's hand. Apart from the bandage on the side of his head, he looks fine.

"Look at you," John finally says softly. "Can't leave you alone for two seconds."

"Lestrade said exactly the same thing."

John smiles and squeezes his hand. "How are you feeling?"

"High on pain-killers at the moment. It's quite nice." 

"I'm sure it is. When can we take you home?"

Marcus frowns. "I think they said tonight. I can't remember."

"I'll check."

"Tell them they can let me go home because I've got my own personal doctor to look after me." 

John smiles again and ghosts his hand over the bandage. Without Sherlock, he'd got used to not seeing people he cared about injured every other week. He thinks he prefers it that way.

"Although..." Marcus says. "You should see my nurse. She's very nice. It's tempting to stay."

"You sure you didn't dislodge a few brain cells with that knock to the head?" John teases.

Marcus just smiles, obviously hazy from the concussion and the medication.

"I'm just going to go chat to your nurse, alright? See what drugs they've got you on and find out about taking you home."

"Hmm. Don't run off with her though."

"I promise."

Marcus is already falling asleep when John steps out of the room. He leans back against the door and lets out a shaky breath, tension finally easing from his shoulders. Marcus is going to be fine, but this is not an experience John would want to repeat any time soon.

*

_November 2014_

"What are you doing here?"

Sherlock scowls up at his brother from where he is sprawled on the sofa. He doesn't even bother asking how Mycroft got into his flat.

"Sebastian Moran."

Sherlock sits up swiftly. It must be serious if Mycroft isn't even going to play his usual games.

"What's happened?"

"He has escaped from custody."

Sherlock frowns, presses his hands together. "How?"

"It seems he was given permission to attend his mother's funeral. Once the funeral was over, he managed to disarm his guards and escape."

"Idiots," Sherlock mutters, already calculating probablitites, planning contingencies.

"He'll come for you, Sherlock."

Sherlock looks up at his brother's solemn tone. He looks almost worried, which makes Sherlock both pleased and agitated. 

"Of course he will. Why else would he break out?"

"You have to be ready."

"I trapped him once before, I can do it again."

"This is more... personal," Mycroft says carefully. "Before, he was under orders. Now, he will be operating on the simple desire for revenge."

Sherlock says nothing - it's true, after all, and he suspects that, driven by personal motive, Moran might be even more vindictive. Sherlock absently flexes his fingers, the phantom pain of broken bones a momentary distraction.

"I cannot keep watch all the time," Mycroft adds. "You must be careful, Sherlock."

Sherlock honestly can't remember the last time he saw his brother this perturbed. It's a little unnerving, to say the least. Sherlock could offer false promises to be careful, but they both know it would be pointless. Instead, Sherlock says nothing, and Mycroft leaves, the flat falling silent once he's gone.

*

Sherlock's patience is a finite thing and he soon grows tired of waiting for Moran to make his move. It's been three days and no sign of him. A mystery from Lestrade, even a boringly mundane one, is just what he needs to take his mind off Moran for a few hours, and when Lestrade agrees to let him see the paperwork for his latest case, Sherlock hurries over to Scotland Yard.

He soon gives Lestrade the lead he needs and Lestrade sends a team off to arrest the half-sister who had attacked Laura Knowles in order to scare her out of her share of their father's inheritance. 

"Well, that was a waste of my time," Sherlock pronounces.

"You asked me, remember?" Lestrade says. "I know better than to bother you with anything less than full-on murder with a twist."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and pushes himself to his feet. "Well, if you've got nothing better for me, I'll be on my way."

"Very sorry to have inconvenienced you."

Marcus appears at the door just as Sherlock is leaving. "You done already?"

"Apparently our nasty attack is far too run-of-the-mill for Sherlock," Lestrade comments snarkily.

"I gave you your attacker, didn't I?"

"Too kind."

Marcus smiles and turns his attention back to Sherlock. "I'm just heading home, if you want a lift."

Sherlock acquiesces and wanders off towards the lifts as Marcus says goodbye to Lestrade. Marcus catches up to him just as a ping signals the lift's arrival, and they make their way down to the underground car park. 

Now that the case is solved, Sherlock's mind returns to the issue of Sebastian Moran, so he is silent as Marcus navigates his way across London. Marcus, thankfully, has got very good at not disturbing Sherlock during the kind of silence that means he's deep in thought, and he says nothing until they reach Sherlock's flat.

"Here we are."

Sherlock hums and reaches out for the door handle.

"Sherlock, wait a minute."

Sherlock stops and turns to face Marcus. 

"There's something I wanted to ask you." Marcus is staring out of the window, his hands flexing around the steering wheel. Something urges Sherlock not to speak up, even as the silence stretches out.

"It's about John," Marcus eventually says. "You and John."

Sherlock frowns, not sure where this conversation is going, and Marcus finally turns to him with a look of determination. "You're in love with him, aren't you?"

Sherlock freezes for a moment, and then jerkily turns his head aside. He can't think of the right thing to say, but Marcus speaks up again anyway.

"I think your silence says it all, really."

Sherlock still says nothing and Marcus lets out a little huff of breath. "I'm not angry," he explains. "I just... want you to know that I know. And that it's... okay."

Marcus pauses for a moment, and Sherlock can see him picking at the stitching on the steering wheel absentmindedly out of the corner of his eye. "And I suppose... I'm sorry."

Sherlock's gaze is drawn to Marcus, his eyes widening with surprise.

Marcus shrugs. "I've been there, where you are, and I know what it's like. So if you ever, you know, want to talk..."

Sherlock gives him a look of sheer incredulity and Marcus laughs lowly. "Yeah, maybe not then."

An awkward silence falls over them, broken only when Sherlock finally opens the door. "Thank you for the lift," he gets out tautly. 

"You're welcome."

Sherlock climbs out of the car and closes the door behind him. He turns quickly and crosses the pavement and jogs down the stairs to his front door. He is almost so distracted that he doesn't notice the obvious, but as soon as he does, he freezes. His front door is ajar.

Sherlock's heart starts pounding and, for a moment, he feels only relief from the agony of waiting and not knowing. He pushes the door open and steps inside, not bothering to be quiet and not bothering to shut the door behind him. He might need an escape route anyway. He takes off his coat, hangs it up behind the door, and makes his way along the hallway.

Sebastian Moran is sitting on the sofa, the gun in his hand pointed in Sherlock's direction. "Hello, Sherlock."

"Sebastian."

Moran may once have been an attractive man, but the scar running from hairline to jaw - the scar that Sherlock gave him five months ago - makes him look like the villain he really is, especially when he smiles. 

"Did you miss me?" Moran asks as he rises to his feet, the gun still aimed at Sherlock.

"Not particularly."

"You knew I would come back."

"I had hoped the French penal system would be able to deal with you, but apparently not."

Moran grins, always so pleased with himself. "I'll happily hand myself in again... as soon as I'm finished with you."

"Or you could hand yourself in now," a third voice says.

Moran's eyes shoot towards the doorway, where Marcus has appeared. Sherlock takes advantage of the distraction and rushes Moran, tackling him to the floor. The gun goes off, a flash of light and smoke in the gloom of the basement flat. The crack of the bullet flying just wide of his shoulder temporarily deafens Sherlock in one ear, his reaction automatic as his hand flies out to knock the gun from Moran's fingers. The weapon goes skittering across the untidy floor, spinning to a halt just out of reach. They grapple that way, straining and clawing for dominance, both trying to get leverage. Moran is still as strong as he ever was and a blow to Sherlock's solar plexus leaves him winded.

"Marcus!" Sherlock chokes out a little desperately, gasping for air as Moran manages to flip their positions and pin him to the floor by the throat.

The next thing he knows, there is a low thump and Moran flops heavily on top of him, limbs suddenly slack and unwieldy. Sherlock just catches a glimpse of the heavy book in Marcus's hand as he strains against the deadweight of the insensate Moran. Sherlock groans and heaves them both over, Sebastian's head making a soft thunk as it bounces against the floorboards. Sherlock knows better than to think that's enough, though, and he quickly pulls his belt off and uses it to secure Moran's hands behind his back. He won't be dazed for long, his eyelids already fluttering with returning consciousness and Sherlock takes a vicious pleasure in pulling the belt just a little too tight.

He releases the belt, breathless but triumphant, and turns to give his thanks for the timely intervention just as Marcus drops the book and sinks shakily to his knees. Marcus groans, one trembling hand pressing tentatively to his side, his fingers coming away bloody.

"Oh... fuck," he gasps.

"Marcus?"

Marcus blanches and sinks back against the sofa, staring at his hand. Sherlock rushes to him, pushing his jacket aside enough to see that the white of his shirt has already turned a blackish dark red. 

"I'm fine," Marcus chokes out.

"You're fine," Sherlock agrees quickly. He presses his hand hard against Marcus's side, ignoring the low keen of pain it forces from Marcus's throat as he crushes the fabric of Marcus's shirt against the wound. He slips his phone from his pocket with his free hand. "It's just a scratch."

"Just a flesh wound," Marcus murmurs, with a laugh that quickly gets cut off by a sharp hiss of discomfort.

Sherlock dials 999 and passes on the details as quickly as he can. Marcus's hands hover uselessly over the wound, bloodied fingers leaving a sticky smear on Sherlock's wrist as he clutches at the loose edge of Sherlock's shirtsleeve. Marcus's face is creased in pain, eyes squeezing shut as breath hitches a little desperately in his lungs, the onset of shock making him pale and shivery. Sherlock leaves his connection to the operator open but drops his phone to one side and Marcus gives him a puzzled look as Sherlock urges him to lay down, head resting in Sherlock's lap.

"You know... you're not a complete bastard," Marcus gets out slowly. His breathing is erratic now and Sherlock tries to ignore the little voice in his head which says _collapsed lung_. He squeezes harder, ignoring Marcus's wince as he tries to staunch the flow of blood.

"Thank you," Sherlock says absently. He shrugs out of his suit jacket, flipping the fabric open and laying it over Marcus in an attempt to keep him warm.

As he pulls his free hand back, Marcus grabs hold of him again, bloody fingers slipping against his skin. 

"I was right, wasn't I? Before? About- about you?"

"Yes," Sherlock says. He has bigger things to worry about right now than John's boyfriend knowing how he feels about John.

"How long?" Marcus asks. He swallows thickly, his eyelids growing heavy as he threatens to slip into unconsciousness.

"Too long," Sherlock says, before forcing himself to meet Marcus's gaze. "Almost as long as I've known him."

"But you've never... told him."

"I thought he was straight."

Marcus chokes out a single, rough laugh, his eyes slipping shut as he grows heavy against Sherlock's thigh. 

"Marcus," Sherlock says, giving him a little shake. "Come on. Stay awake."

Dazed eyes flicker open again, his gaze unfocused as he stares up at the ceiling. "I don't know what John's always moaning about," he slurs. "It doesn't hurt that bad... being shot."

"You know John likes to exaggerate."

Marcus smiles weakly, and then grimaces, squeezing Sherlock's fingers almost painfully tightly. "Sherlock..." 

"You're fine," Sherlock cuts in, trying to keep his voice low and even.

Marcus nods, but his lips are already turning blue and his eyes can't seem to focus. 

"Marcus. Come on, Marcus." Sherlock scrabbles around wildly for something to say, anything to keep Marcus awake. "Did- did John ever tell you about the time we dressed up as ninjas?"

Marcus makes an indeterminate motion with his head, lids drooping heavily as his hand slides limply down to splay over his chest.

"It was a ridiculously simple case, really. But catching the criminals was proving difficult. It was John's idea, the dressing up. He's surprisingly clever sometimes."

Sherlock looks down when only silence greets him. 

"Marcus?" Sherlock gives him a nudge. "Marcus?"

*

John's phone is just about to vibrate itself off the edge of the coffee table when he returns from the bathroom. He rushes forward and picks it up, glancing only briefly at the display.

"Greg?"

"John." 

"Hi. What's up?"

"John, it's Marcus. He's... he's in hospital."

"Is he alright? What happened?" John asks, rushing across to the door and slipping into his shoes. 

"He's in surgery at the moment."

The fact that Lestrade does not answer either question makes John instantly more worried. "Where are you?"

"St. Mary's."

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

John hangs up and dashes down the stairs and out into the street, his heart pounding in his chest. Something is very wrong. He hails a taxi and passes the short journey in restless impatience. As soon as the taxi pulls up, he throws some money at the driver and clambers out, before running towards the main entrance.

John is finally pointed towards the trauma ward and he slows to a walk when he spots Lestrade and Sherlock sitting in the corridor outside one of the private rooms. Lestrade's face is buried in his hands so he doesn't see John, but Sherlock does and the expression on his face is like nothing John's ever seen before. Lestrade looks up just as John reaches them, and the tears in his eyes make John's legs go weak under him.

"Where is he?" John asks.

"John." Lestrade clears his throat and gets to his feet, clearly struggling for control. "I'm so sorry, John."

"Where is he?" John repeats. 

Lestrade looks like he's about to lose it again, but he clears his throat and reaches out to press his hand to John's shoulder. "John... He's dead."

For a moment, the words don't seem real, and John shakes his head helplessly. He looks over Lestrade's shoulder to Sherlock, but Sherlock's eyes are red-rimmed too.

"No," he gets out as reality hits. "No."

"I'm so sorry, John. He was shot. They had to operate, but it was already too late."

The words ring in his ears. It can't be possible. He lets himself be steered into the chair Lestrade has vacated, mainly because he thinks he might fall over if he stands any longer. 

"How?" John chokes out.

"Moran," Sherlock says from beside him. "Sebastian Moran."

John holds Sherlock's gaze for several long seconds, and then looks back up at Lestrade. He cannot absorb anything they are telling him right now.

"I want to see him."

Lestrade nods and beckons for him to stand, before leading him across to the room with a hand on his arm. "I'll just be out here," Lestrade says softly, then opens the door for him and moves back.

John freezes on the threshold as his eyes take in a figure covered by a hospital blanket. He closes his eyes, hoping and praying that this is all a bad dream, but when he opens them again, the room hasn't changed. He forces himself forward and comes to a stop at the edge of the bed, his hand hovering over the sheet. His hand is trembling as he finally peels back the fabric and his breath hitches as he takes in Marcus's still face.

From outside the room, Sherlock hears a broken cry and he stumbles to his feet. 

"Sherlock, where are you going?"

He ignores Lestrade and keeps going until he crashes out of an exit and into the fresh air, tears threatening to spill over onto his cheeks. He skirts around the edge of the building and finally comes to a stop in a darkened corner. He rests his hands on his knees for a moment, gasping for air, shoulders shaking as he gulps down cold lungfuls of the damp London evening. He clenches his fists, gore rising in his throat as he blows out controlled streams of breath that turn to smoky white vapour from his lips. He breathes until he feels like he can stand without falling, and leans back heavily against the dirty brick, head tilted up towards the sky. With shaking hands he pulls the cigarettes and lighter he'd pilfered from Lestrade from his pocket. He shakes a cigarette free from the carton, places the tip between his lips and lights it, breathing deep to get that first potent hit of nicotine. 

It is not the smell of smoke that fills his nostrils though, and in the pale light cast by a couple of faraway streetlights, he can see nothing but the dried blood encrusting the pale skin of his hands.


	11. Chapter 11

_April 2014_

"Look at this," Marcus says, gesturing towards the television as John flops down next to him. "Looks like they're finally going to legalise gay marriage."

"About bloody time."

"My thoughts exactly."

The newsreader moves onto the next piece, something about the war in the Middle East, and John huffs in disbelief. 

"Is it something you'd be interested in?" Marcus asks after a moment. John looks between Marcus and the television with a frown of confusion.

"A ceasefire?"

"No, marriage."

John's eyebrows rise of their own accord.

"I'm not proposing," Marcus explains with a laugh. "I'm just curious."

John takes a moment to gather his thoughts. Marriage isn't something he's thought about in recent years. 

"Well, having the option's nice but, personally, it doesn't make much difference to me. What about you?"

"I dunno. I haven't really thought about getting married since my ex suggested it."

"Excuse me?" John's voice rises an octave without much direction from his brain.

Marcus turns to him with a look of surprise. "I'm sure I told you about that."

"No, I think I would have remembered that."

"He wasn't serious," Marcus replies with a laugh. "I think it was just a last ditch attempt to save our relationship... We broke up about a month later."

"Any other almost-engagements I should know about?" 

"No, that's it. You know, I like it when you get jealous."

"I'm not jealous."

"Good. Because I've only ever been with one person I'd consider marrying," Marcus says in a low voice, his eyes fixed on John.

John can't stop the smile that tugs at his lips. "Likewise."

*

_November 2014_

John doesn't remember much about the first few days after Marcus's death. He knows it took Lestrade practically carrying him out of the hospital for him to leave that first night. He knows that Lestrade sat him down two days later and tried to explain what had happened. All he can remember from that particular conversation is the general concept that Sebastian Moran, who was supposed to be in prison, had shot Marcus. He can't quite recall any of the details.

Four days after Marcus's death, Lestrade turns up and hands him a copy of Sherlock's statement. 

"I'm not supposed to give you this," Lestrade says. "But I think you need it."

John sits with the papers in his hands later that day and tries to focus on the words, but he can't. He throws them aside and presses his hands to his eyes. He's sick of trying to make it make sense, because it's never going to: Marcus is dead, and there is nothing rational or reasonable about it. 

"Here."

He looks up as Sasha hands him a cup of tea, before sitting down next to him. She gives him a sad smile and presses briefly against his side. She has been a rock from the start and it makes him feel awful. He can barely summon the energy to get up in the morning, but Marcus's sister is looking after him _and_ organising a funeral at the same time.

"You don't have to stay again tonight," he tells her. "I'll be alright."

She gives him a firm look. "I'm staying."

He smiles but it feels awkward and wooden. Sasha flicks on the television and he tries his best to pay attention to what's on the screen, but it's no good.

"I think I'm going to go to bed," he announces a moment later, pushing up off the sofa. After a moment's pause, he picks up Sherlock's statement again.

Sasha reaches out to squeeze his arm. "Night, John."

John climbs the stairs to what was once his room and shuts the door behind him. He cannot bear to stay in their shared bedroom; cannot bear to look at the clothes Marcus left piled on a chair, which make it look like he's coming back any minute; cannot bear sleeping in their bed by himself and feeling the empty space beside him. 

He throws himself down on the single bed in his old room and stares blindly at the ceiling. After a minute, he reaches out for the statement again, Lestrade's familiar scrawl blurring before his eyes. Even as he reads, his mind wanders away from the contents.

He hasn't seen Sherlock since the hospital. He's not sure what that means. Perhaps Sherlock is busy on a case. Or perhaps there are just too many emotions flying around for a man like Sherlock to deal with. John honestly doesn't know, but Sherlock's continued absence cuts away at him, a surprising, dull ache that steals up on him in quiet moments. If ever he needed proof that they are not as close as they were three years ago, this is it. 

He forces his attention back to the documents in his hand and gets as far as the bit where Moran's gun goes off before he has to throw them aside. His shoulder burns with the ancient memory of being shot and he can remember it as if it were yesterday; the heat and the searing pain and blood - so much blood pouring from such a relatively small wound - and he'd been sure he was going to bleed out before anyone could find him. Being alone was the worst bit, he thinks.

Marcus wasn't alone, though. Try as he might, John cannot picture Sherlock in that situation, cannot imagine how he would act, or what he would say. Would he lie and pretend everything was alright, even as he must have known it was not, or was that kind of prevarication beyond him? John does not know, and the statement contains nothing to give him any real idea of how Marcus spent his last few minutes of consciousness before he slipped under, never to wake again.

It's with a sudden wave of desperation that he pulls his phone from his pocket and sends a message to Sherlock.

_I need to talk to you._

A restless thirty minutes passes, and there is no reply from Sherlock. Considering the man is usually attached to his phone, John finds it a little odd. John tries ringing, but it goes straight to voicemail. He's feeling antsy now, unable to sit and wait - Sherlock has answers and John needs those far more desperately than he needs yet more numbing, evasive sleep.

Before he knows it, John is down the stairs and pulling on his coat. 

"Changed my mind. I'm just popping out," he says in reply to Sasha's look of confusion.

"Do you want me to come with you?"

He shakes his head. "I'll be back a bit later, alright?"

Sasha gives him another strange look and he attempts a reassuring smile, but his face feels stiff and tired. He gives her a quick nod and finally heads downstairs and out into the crisp night air.

In ten minutes he is standing at Sherlock's front door - Marcus's old front door, and he doesn't know how he forgot that. For a moment, he feels lightheaded as a torrent of memories crowd in around him, and he presses a steadying hand against the frame as his breath rushes from him in bursts of white cloud. Finally, he raises his hand and raps on the door.

Several long moments later, the door finally opens to reveal a scowling, dishevelled Sherlock. His expression softens as soon as he lays eyes on John.

"John," he gets out, his voice hoarse.

"You look like shit." John's gaze flicks from the dark smudges under Sherlock's eyes, to the wild bird's nest his hair has become, to the wrinkled pyjamas that look about two days past clean. In fact, Sherlock looks about as bad as John feels.

Sherlock says nothing in reply to John's comment.

"Can I come in?" John prompts.

Sherlock steps back and John walks past him into the dark corridor. The only light in the whole flat is coming from the single dull bulb in the living room, lending a sombre look to the whole place. John turns back towards Sherlock with a frown.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing," Sherlock says, giving a vague wave and moving past John into the living room.

John lingers by the door as Sherlock throws himself onto the sofa. Their eyes meet for just a second, but then Sherlock looks away again. 

"How are you?" Sherlock asks awkwardly.

"I'm... Yeah." He is so far from fine there isn't even any point in lying. Sherlock glances at him, a single brief moment of sympathy etched across his face, then turns away again. "I need to talk to you," John says.

"Why?"

"Because... because you were there, Sherlock."

Sherlock's expression does something odd, before that all-too-familiar, hateful blank mask descends. John cannot bear the sight of it right now.

"You've read my statement."

"It's not the same."

"I don't see why not," Sherlock says with a little shrug.

John swipes a hand over his eyes. Sometimes Holmesian logic is just too much to bear. "Because he... he died. And you were the last person to speak to him."

"Knowing what he said won't bring him back."

"I know that," John bites out angrily, then repeats, much more calmly: "I know. I just... he's dead, Sherlock." Anyone else would understand, he thinks to himself.

"I'm well aware of that."

Sherlock still won't look at John and his expression is somewhere between pained and... almost bored.

"I don't expect you to understand what it feels like," John gets out around the lump in his throat. "What it's like to lose the most important person in your life." _Twice_ , John thinks.

When Sherlock still says nothing, still just sits there as if he hasn't a care in the world, John feels rage - irrational, pointless rage - welling up inside him.

"Could you just, for once in your life, think about someone else," John says angrily. "Could you just be a normal person, for once."

John lets out a ragged breath, but it does nothing to ease the tightness in his chest. "For fuck's sake. He's _dead_. Does that even compute for you? The man I love is dead, and all you can do is just sit there."

Sherlock turns towards him sharply but John doesn't seem to be able to stop.

"It must be nice, not having emotions. Not feeling like there's no point going on because the only person that matters is-" John hates himself for the sob that breaks free and cuts him off.

"Fuck," he gets out when he thinks he can talk again without his voice quivering. "Why did I even bother coming here? It's like talking to a fucking brick wall."

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but John holds up a hand to silence him. "Don't. Just don't."

John runs his hand over his face again. "I'm going." Rage keeps him talking when he should just stop. "If you've ever wondered why you've got no friends, Sherlock, it's because you're a heartless fucking machine."

The room echoes with his words and he feels sick to the stomach when he realises they are the same words he threw at Sherlock less than an hour before his apparent suicide. Those same words haunted him for a long time afterwards, but he is too angry to take them back now. He lets out a noise of frustration and turns away before he can say anything else. Sherlock makes no protest as John storms from his flat.

*

Mycroft's arrival only ten minutes after John's exit is unsurprising, and even more annoying for it. Sherlock will have to strip the flat of bugs _again_. Mycroft appears in the living room doorway, ignoring Sherlock's flinch he casts a disdainful look over the chaotic mess in the living room, and then over Sherlock himself.

"You could have handled that a little better, don't you think?" 

"Piss off." Sherlock rolls over to face the back of the sofa.

"He's overly emotional, you should know that by now."

Sherlock scowls.

"He may not forgive you for this, but perhaps it's for the best."

There is a moment of silence and he can hear his brother moving. When Mycroft speaks up again, he is closer, and his voice has taken on a softer intonation. "I've told you before, Sherlock, caring is not an advantage. Look at what it has done to you." 

"Go away, Mycroft," he gets out, too tired to put any real anger into it.

"I didn't even think you particularly liked Sergeant Morstan."

"I don't particularly like you, but I might be upset if you were murdered," Sherlock bites out. "Then again, maybe not."

Mycroft lets out a put-upon sigh. "Is this melodrama quite necessary?"

"No one's forcing you to watch."

"Very well." Mycroft moves away, but pauses at the door. "Oh, and Sherlock? If it should come to it... please call me before you consider using the illicit substance hidden in the bathroom."

Sherlock knows better than to be surprised, and he lets out a ragged breath through his nose. Mycroft leaves without another word, and Sherlock curls into a tighter ball, tired eyes falling shut of their own accord.

*

"Marcus was good at everything," Marcus's older brother Peter says, eyes sweeping around the church. "He was a great brother, and a good friend. He got all As at school, and a First at university. He was even good at sport... It was bloody annoying." 

There is a faint chuckle, and Peter gives a weak smile. 

"They tell me he was a great police officer too, and I can believe it. When we were kids, he always had to be the cop when we played Cops and Robbers, and he always seemed to enjoy arresting me far too much."

Another faint laugh among those present, and the corners of John's mouth twitch, but never quite make it to a real smile. Sasha leans heavily against his side, tears finally flowing unchecked, and he wraps a hand tightly around hers.

"Marcus, he..." Peter falters, but then starts again. "Marcus was my little brother, but he was always the one looking after me. After everyone, really."

John screws his eyes shut tightly as grief threatens to overpower him, his fingers tightening around Sasha's almost unthinkingly. She squeezes back just as hard, her head pressed to his shoulder. John can't even focus on Peter's words anymore, and he bows his head, wishing this was a nightmare he could wake up from.

The rest of the service passes in a haze and, some time later, they move out into the graveyard. When John finally takes in his surroundings, he is surprised by the sheer number of people who have come to pay their respects. His eyes flick over a number of familiar faces: Harry, Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Mike Stamford, Sally Donovan, even Anderson. The Met is here in force, sombre faces bowed low as they honour one of their own. Then there's Marcus's family, and his friends from school and university, and so many more people John doesn't recognise.

It takes only a moment for John to notice Sherlock's absence and, despite everything, he is disappointed. Maybe he was right about Sherlock all along, when he'd called him heartless. The thought brings only sadness with it now.

Before he knows it, John is standing with Sasha as the funeral-goers make their way out of the graveyard, pausing to express their condolences to the family. Marcus's parents stand a little way off, Marcus's mother pale-faced and red-eyed while her husband greets people with a grim nod. Sasha hasn't said a word to either of them, and looks as displeased to see them as John knows she must be. Marcus hadn't spoken to his parents in years, not since his coming out had almost split the family in two. Sasha hadn't wanted to even tell her parents, anger and sorrow making her bitter, but John had persuaded her otherwise. He knows what it's like to live with the kind of regret that comes from never getting the chance to put things right. 

Sasha jolts him back to the present as she releases his arm in order to hug an elderly woman that John quickly recognises as Marcus's grandmother. They've met only twice before, but after she has released Sasha, she pulls John into a surprisingly tight embrace. 

"How are you doing, dear?" she asks.

"I'm fine," he lies.

She pulls back and presses a hand to his face. "You liar."

He gives her a weak smile and she moves on to talk to Peter and his wife. Next up is a middle-aged woman with carefully coiffed hair and a fake smile.

"Sasha, dear," she coos, drawing her into a brief, awkward embrace. Sasha's frown tells John all he needs to know about the relationship.

"Auntie Sarah, this is John," Sasha says, pulling away and gesturing towards him. Sarah holds out a delicate hand to shake his.

"Nice to meet you, John," she says, flashing a wide smile at Sasha. "Well, it was about time you settled down, Sasha, you're not getting any younger, you know."

"John was Marcus's partner," Sasha gets out in an icy cold tone. 

"Oh."

Awkward silence settles over them and Sarah eventually excuses herself and skips along towards Marcus's parents. Peter watches her go past in bemusement and then shifts closer to them.

"Sash, are you stirring things up?"

"I'm not going to stand here at my brother's funeral and pretend he wasn't gay just to please those ridiculous homophobes. I don't know why they even bothered coming." Sasha's voice cracks and John wraps an arm around her.

"It's alright," John murmurs. 

She wipes her eyes and nods jerkily. "Yeah. God, I need a fag."

"I might be able to help you there," John says, as he catches sight of Lestrade over her shoulder. 

Lestrade and Sasha soon wander off together in search of a quieter spot, and John chats to Molly and Mike for a little bit, before they move slowly off towards the gate as well. 

John is about to go and look for Sasha and Lestrade, when a soft voice stops him. He turns round to find Marcus's mother regarding him with a sorrowful expression.

"John, is it?" she asks quietly.

"Yes."

"I'm Margaret," she says, holding out her hand tentatively.

John swallows hard and takes her hand. "John Watson."

She smiles sadly. "All I ever wanted was for my son to be happy."

"He was," John murmurs around the lump in his throat. "He was happy... We were happy."

Her eyes well up as she draws back her hand. "I'm glad," she whispers. She glances round to where Marcus's father is hovering with a slight grimace. "I'd best go."

She slouches away and John rubs a hand over his face. 

"You alright?"

John starts at his sister's voice and turns towards her. Harry's looking healthier than ever and he can't help but smile at her, half-hearted though it is.

"I hate funerals."

"Me too. Wanna slink off and get drunk?" she jokes.

"You would not believe how tempting that is right now."

"I really would," Harry says solemnly, before stepping forward and wrapping her arms around him. Years of childish rivalry mean nothing right now as he hugs her to him, burying his face in her shoulder.

"I'm so sorry, Johnny. So so sorry."

He's crying now and he can't help it, can't hold it in anymore. Harry tightens her hold and he clings to her almost desperately, tears soaking into her jacket.

*

Someone is hammering on the door but Sherlock can barely be bothered to move. He knows who it is anyway, and this is confirmed when Lestrade's voice calls through the letterbox a few minutes later.

"I know you're in there. Open the bloody door."

Sherlock heaves an audible sigh.

"I'll break this door down if I have to, Sherlock," Lestrade threatens.

With effort, Sherlock drags himself up from the sofa, feeling dizzy and lightheaded once he is on his feet. He should probably eat something soon. He shuffles to the front door and opens it to let Lestrade in.

"Where the hell have you been?" Lestrade exclaims, pushing inside. 

Sherlock ignores him and shuffles back to the living room.

"Where were you today?" 

"Here."

"Yeah, I know that," Lestrade sighs. "Why the fuck weren't you at the funeral, where you should've been?"

"I had no reason to be there."

"Marcus would have wanted you there. John needed you there."

Sherlock swallows around the lump in his throat. "I doubt that very much."

"For fuck's sake, Sherlock. What is wrong with you?"

Sherlock says nothing, and watches as Lestrade's expression wavers between disgust, anger and something else. Lestrade lets out an angry huff of breath and his gaze skips round the room.

"Look at this place, it looks like a bloody crackhouse."

Dark, searching eyes sweep over Sherlock. 

"I'm not using," Sherlock snaps out, drawing his dressing gown tight around him.

"Well, good."

Lestrade sighs and presses his fingertips to his temple, before fixing his gaze on Sherlock once more.

"You should have been there today," he says softly.

Sherlock closes his eyes tiredly. "I know."

They fall silent and Sherlock listens as Lestrade moves the stack of newspapers from the only armchair and sits down. Eyes still closed, Sherlock can't stop himself from speaking up again.

"Do you still remember how it felt to be directly responsible for someone's death?" Sherlock asks.

Lestrade's slow exhale is answer enough, even without his quiet 'yes'.

"Does it ever... stop?"

Sherlock can feel the weight of Lestrade's gaze on him. "Is that what this is about?" Lestrade eventually says in a gentle tone. "You think it was your fault?"

"I don't think, I know."

"Sherlock." Lestrade makes a low, frustrated noise, drawing Sherlock's eyes reluctantly open and towards him. "It wasn't your fault. There was nothing you could do to stop it."

"Of course there was. There are a hundred things I could have done differently that would have meant Marcus was still alive."

Usually, Sherlock hates this kind of thinking. It's pointless and a waste of brainpower, but this particular _what if_ just won't leave him alone.

When he looks up, Lestrade is watching him with something uncomfortably close to compassion in his gaze. "No-one blames you, Sherlock. It was an accident."

"It was a mistake," Sherlock chokes out hatefully. "I made a mistake and a man is dead because of it."

Lestrade sighs and moves across to perch on the arm of the sofa. "I know it feels like that now, but in time you'll come to realise that things happen sometimes - awful things. And no matter how much we wish differently, we can't change what happened. We can't take it back."

Lestrade swallows audibly and Sherlock stares numbly at the ceiling. He knows Lestrade is speaking from experience, but well-meant platitudes don't help the ache in his chest one bit.

"I have to go," Lestrade eventually says. "But if you need to talk, you know where I am. You can't let this- this guilt just... eat away at you, alright?"

Sherlock makes some sort of noise - enough to satisfy Lestrade - and Lestrade leaves him to the torture of his own thoughts once more.


	12. Chapter 12

It's been two weeks since Marcus's funeral, and John finds himself once again heading for St. Stephen's Church - or, rather, the cemetery attached to it. It's become a familiar place already, in the short time that has passed. He's been given compassionate leave from work, but he can't bear the oppressive silence of 221b, so he spends his days wandering aimlessly around London. Unsurprisingly, his feet often lead him here, to the graveyard of St. Stephen's, where a simple grey stone marks Marcus's resting place. 

He follows the winding path along the side of the church and rounds the corner, only to come to an abrupt stop as he spots a familiar dark-clothed figure standing by the grave. Sherlock. 

John swallows hard, the memory of their last meeting flitting through his mind. His anger is long gone now, dissipated under the weight of his grief, forgotten in the enveloping cloud of his despair. He doesn't have the energy to be angry anymore. He moves forward slowly, and when he is about five steps away, Sherlock looks up.

The hateful mask of indifference is gone, replaced by a tortured expression, and he watches as Sherlock visibly tries, and fails, to wipe the emotion from his face. John can't help but take in the sight of him: the shadows under his eyes, deeper and darker than before, the colourless expanse of his face, the sharp contours thrown into relief. The signs of grief are obvious and familiar; he sees them in the mirror every day.

"Hello," John says after an awkward pause.

"Hello."

That look of reticence is back in Sherlock's expression, reminding John of the first few months after his return. It makes John even more determined to plough on through the discomfort of trying to mend bridges.

John hasn't thought much about his recent conversation with Lestrade, in which Lestrade had strongly hinted that Sherlock was not taking Marcus's death as well as it seemed, but it springs to mind now. In truth, John's grief has been a deep, self-absorbed thing, but now he looks at Sherlock and sees the pain lurking at the corners of his eyes too and echoes of that conversation come back. 

"You haven't been sleeping," John says after an uncomfortably long moment, and Sherlock's eyebrows raise in surprise. He finally lifts one corner of his mouth into a tentative smile.

"You know I despise wasting time sleeping."

John lets out a huff of dry laughter. "I bet you haven't been eating either."

Sherlock says nothing and John's eyes trail away towards the headstone, tracing the letters of Marcus's name. He can feel the tension surrounding them, and it makes him shift restlessly from foot to foot. Despite everything, he wants to make it right again. He's already lost one person he loves, and he doesn't want to lose Sherlock all over again as well.

"Mrs. Hudson's been providing me with endless supplies of hotpot, if you fancy it."

He looks up just in time to catch Sherlock giving him a faintly shocked look.

"I don't understand."

"Food," John explains with a smile. "Dinner. At mi-"

"No. I don't understand why you're even talking to me. Last time..."

John clears his throat, abashed. "I may have overreacted."

"John-"

"No, look, I'm sorry. I... shouldn't have said what I said." He meets Sherlock's eyes. "You're not heartless. I know you're not. You just like to pretend you are sometimes."

Sherlock purses his lips, and his gaze flicks over to the gravestone, his expression softening. "If I made it seem that I didn't care, I'm sorry."

"Thank you," John breathes through the ache in his chest. 

"If I could've done anything to prevent-"

"Don't," John interjects quietly, his voice thick with emotion. "Please... don't." He's spent long hours torturing himself with what could have been, but to hear Sherlock, the master of logic, resort to the same is somehow even worse. 

Sherlock holds his gaze for a long moment, then looks away.

"So, dinner?" John asks with an attempt at lightness.

"I'm really not hungry."

"Well neither am I, but the bloody hotpot's not going to eat itself."

Sherlock's lips curve into the faintest hint of a smile and John takes it as acceptance.

*

Sherlock doesn't know what he has done to deserve this. John has every right to despise him, but instead he fills two large bowls full of hotpot and plonks one down on the kitchen table in front of Sherlock.

"Eat," he says with mock sternness. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but picks up his fork and starts poking at the steaming food. He glances up, and John is watching him with a pointed look. Sherlock sighs and scoops a forkful of meat into his mouth.

"Happy now?" he asks archly once he has swallowed.

"About ten more mouthfuls and I might be," John says.

Sherlock sighs but takes another mouthful. It really is good hotpot. He looks up to find John taking half-hearted bites of his own food, his eyes on his bowl. He looks to have aged years in the few weeks since Sherlock last saw him and it makes his chest ache, but when he tries to speak up, he can find nothing to say.

They eat in silence, the only sounds the occasional scrape of cutlery and the odd hum of satisfaction. When he has eaten more than enough to make his stomach achingly full, Sherlock pushes his bowl to one side. John stops picking at his food and looks up, glancing at Sherlock's mostly-empty dish and then smiling softly. He places his own fork down, reaching for the glass of water he'd set to one side.

"So, have you-"

He is interrupted by the sudden shrill ringing of Sherlock's phone. Sherlock retrieves it from his pocket and answers quickly when he sees Lestrade's name on the display.

"Yes?"

Lestrade launches straight in with no preamble. "I know you don't want any cases at the moment, and I know why, but I need you."

"What is it?"

"We've got two dead kids and a missing mother."

Sherlock pauses for just a split-second, his eyes meeting John's. "Where?"

"Notting Hill."

"Text me the address. I'll be there in half an hour." He hangs up and returns the phone to his pocket. 

"New case?" John asks with a half-smile.

"Yes." Sherlock pushes himself to his feet quickly, then pauses, looking down at John. "You could come with me, if you like?" 

It's just a hunch, but he didn't miss the way John's face fell when he realised Sherlock would be on his way again. He also couldn't help noticing on his way in the dozens of little signs around the flat that told him exactly how little time John was spending at home.

John gets to his feet as well. "Come with you?"

"Yes."

John hesitates for a moment, but then he comes to a decision, his eyes meeting Sherlock's. "Alright. That'd be good." 

Sherlock gives a nod. "Let's go then."

He hastens out of the room and down the stairs, John no more than two steps behind. If distraction is what John needs, then Sherlock is more than willing to provide it. 

*

"Those poor children," John murmurs, with a shake of his head as he slumps down into his armchair. Sherlock sits down primly on the sofa - as if he hadn't thrown himself on it a thousand times before, as if he was at a stranger's house. The obvious restraint sets John's teeth on edge.

"I don't think their mother will ever quite forgive herself for leaving them with their uncle," Sherlock replies, drawing John back to the topic at hand.

John frowns. "I wonder how many more children he-"

"This was his first transgression," Sherlock cuts in.

"How can you be sure?"

Sherlock gives him an arch look and John breathes out a relieved sigh. "Alright then."

They fall into a comfortable silence, adrenaline fading fast and tiredness seeping in. Outside, the darkness is tinged with the red fingers of dawn.

"I'm glad you caught him," John says, staring idly at the ceiling.

" _We_ caught him," Sherlock corrects, and John tilts his head to look across the room at his friend, who is now looking much more at ease, leaning back into the cushions of the sofa.

"I'm not sure I had anything to do with him being caught." It was Sherlock, and Sherlock alone, who had spotted the final, vital clue.

"Don't be stupid, you were the one who rugby-tackled him in the middle of the bar."

John laughs lowly, rolling his bad shoulder. It'll probably ache in a few hours, but right now, he couldn't care less. A murderer is behind bars, and the rush of satisfaction that brings is more than enough to cancel out the twinges of sore muscle. It's been a long time since he's felt like this.

"I missed this," he says into the darkness. 

"You would have been welcome anytime."

John lets out a long breath towards the ceiling. "It just didn't feel right... Didn't feel like it was my place anymore. It was your thing." He swallows hard. "And Marcus's." 

There is a moment of heavy silence, and then Sherlock speaks up. "I can't imagine a policeman agreeing to break into Charles Milverton's house with me, though."

John smiles. "I don't remember agreeing to anything."

Sherlock hums lazily in reply, and when John looks over, his eyes are closed. 

"You could stay here tonight," John suggests quietly, and Sherlock's eyes fly open guiltily. He watches John for a moment and then sits up straighter.

"It's only a five minute walk."

John swallows his disappointment and plasters on a fake, teasing smile. "Well hurry up and leave then, I want to go to bed."

Sherlock gives him a piercing look, but then gets to his feet, shrugging his coat back into place. He crosses to the door, but pauses on the threshold, turning back towards John.

"I'll see you soon." It's part-question, part-statement, and John nods. Sherlock regards him for a moment longer, and then disappears, leaving John to drag himself upstairs and collapse on his bed.

*

John remembers a time when he could walk through Scotland Yard and hardly anyone batted an eyelid. After Sherlock's death that changed dramatically and, on the few occasions when John visited Lestrade at work, he had been met with icy glares. Today, as he makes his way to Lestrade's office to finalise his statement from yesterday, a sombre silence dogs his steps. He can practically feel the weight of their sympathy - their pity - pushing in on him, and he speeds up as Lestrade's office comes into sight.

Lestrade sees him coming and rises up from behind his desk, meeting him at the door.

"John! I wasn't expecting to see you yet."

"Well," John says with a slight shrug. "Nothing better to do." 

He'd caught up on his sleep by mid-morning (he didn't need much anyway, not since Afghanistan) and had been left with nothing to do but sit around the empty flat. It didn't take long before he was out the door and on his way to the Met's headquarters.

"Come in," Lestrade says, gesturing towards a chair. "Sit down."

Lestrade sits down opposite and gives him a quick, assessing look. "How are you doing?"

"Getting a bit fed up of that question," John jokes.

"Sorry."

"No, you're alright, I'm more than used to it."

Lestrade gives him a half smile. "I was surprised to see you last night," he comments, in an obvious change of subject.

"Yeah, something a bit different. It was good, though. A good... distraction."

"That's certainly one thing Sherlock can provide in spades." Lestrade pauses awkwardly for a moment. "I'm glad you spoke to him."

"Yeah, me too. You were right, by the way."

Lestrade gives a grim smile. "He's not quite as much of an arsehole as he pretends to be."

"No," John agrees with a laugh. 

"Well, come on then, let's get this statement done and then we can grab some lunch, if you want."

"Sounds good."

They go through John's version of events and, when that's all done, they head to a small cafe just down the road. They eat and chat, but all too soon Lestrade has to go back to work and John is once more left with the choice of going home, or wandering the streets of London. After only a moment's deliberation, he instead pulls out his phone and fires off a text:

**_To: Sherlock_ **

**_Where are you?_ **

*

Sherlock is just getting out of a taxi at St. Bart's when his phone vibrates in his pocket. He reads John's text with a slight smile, then sends a quick reply before heading upstairs to the lab. 

Mike Stamford is just leaving when Sherlock enters. "Alright, Sherlock?" he says pleasantly, holding the door open.

"Fine, thank you, Mike."

Sherlock steps past him, but Mike speaks up again, halting him in his steps. 

"Seen John lately?"

"Yesterday, in fact."

"How's he doing?" Mike asks sympathetically.

Sherlock pauses for a moment to consider. "About as well as you would expect."

"Yeah," Mike murmurs with a nod. "Poor bloke. You should've seen him when you-"

Mike cuts himself off and gives Sherlock an abashed smile. 

"You're going to the pub tonight," Sherlock says quickly, to prevent a lame attempt at an apology.

"I... Yes. How did you- No, never mind."

"You go every Tuesday for the Quiz Night. Which you always lose. So you've just been swotting up," Sherlock rattles off, gesturing to the thick book in Mike's hand as Mike turns it over, revealing the title: Pub Quiz Answers.

"Yes alright. What's your point?"

"You should invite John," Sherlock suggests. "Get him out of the house."

"I'll ask him, if you think he'll come."

"I think he'd do anything not to be sitting at home by himself," Sherlock says quietly.

Mike's expression softens and he nods slowly. "When my dad died, me mam used to go to bingo every night just to avoid being at home."

There is a moment of awkward silence, then Sherlock clears his throat. "John's on his way here so you can catch him then."

"Great. Well, I'll let you get on."

Mike leaves and Sherlock slides out of his coat, throwing it over the back of the nearest chair and taking a seat. Right on cue, Molly appears with the samples he'd asked for and leaves them with him, claiming she has a lot of work on (she's actually got a lunch date with a barista from the coffee shop across the road). 

Not ten minutes later, John shows up, looking fairly cheerful. "Do you actually go anywhere else but here and your house?" he says by way of greeting.

"Of course."

"Where?"

"Angelo's," Sherlock answers primly, pretending to be more interested in his slides.

"God, I haven't been to Angelo's in ages."

"I know, he keeps commenting on it."

When Sherlock glances up, John is watching him with amusement. "I should probably go then, just to stop you being hassled."

"You should."

"Are you free tonight?"

"Aren't you busy?" Sherlock asks.

John gives him a confused look, then suddenly his expression clears and he smiles knowingly. "You told Mike to invite me out, didn't you?"

"I may have suggested it."

John laughs softly. "Thank you, but you really don't need to worry about me."

"It can't be helped sometimes," Sherlock murmurs.

"Oh." John clears his throat. "Well, I... Thank you. But I, I'm not really up for going out at the moment."

"Of course." They can easily go to Angelo's anytime, Sherlock reasons.

"Dinner would be nice, though."

Sherlock looks at John in surprise, but then nods. "Excellent."

It looks like he was wrong before - John doesn't just want any distraction. By all appearances (just had lunch with Lestrade - obvious), he wants to spend time with a few select people only, and Sherlock feels privileged to be among them. He will do anything in his power to make this difficult time easier for John, to try to make amends for his own role in everything that has happened.


	13. Chapter 13

_December 2014_

Graham Winfield must have an accomplice. That's the only conclusion Sherlock can come to as he lies on the sofa, contemplating his latest case. Winfield is not strong enough - or man enough - to have inflicted more than the most minor of the victim's injuries. Yet, who would have teamed up with him? And with what motive? Sherlock shakes his head and is about to retreat once more to his Mind Palace when a cup of tea floats into his peripheral vision.

"Here," John says, waving it in front of him until he is forced to take it.

Sherlock gives him a half-hearted scowl at the interruption, but takes the mug anyway. It's only as he takes a sip that the needs of his body reassert themselves, letting him know that the refreshment is very welcome.

"Any ideas?" John asks, dropping into his favourite armchair.

"How am I supposed to come up with anything when you constantly interrupt me with food and drink?" Sherlock counters, only half-serious.

"Constantly?" John echoes, voice rich with laughter. "I made you a sandwich two hours ago, and I've just made you a cup of tea. Constantly's pushing it a bit, don't you think?"

"Consumption in perpetuity. Can't you go out for a while?" Sherlock suggests with a playful smile.

"This is my house," John reminds him.

Sherlock scoffs in dismissal. "Since when does that matter?" 

What Sherlock won't say is that he actually prefers to be here at 221b, with John. It serves a double purpose of fulfilling desires he'd do better to ignore, and providing a distraction for his still grieving friend.

John went back to work a couple of weeks ago, on a part-time basis, but whatever passion he might once have had for his job is gone. In fact, in dark moments of reflection, Sherlock notes that much of John's passion for anything is gone. His sadness has become subdued as he struggles to get on with his life but, like a shadow, it follows him everywhere. In desperate attempts to compensate (for his own benefit, as much as John's), Sherlock takes every single case that comes his way, and involves John as much as he can get away with.

"I'm not going anywhere," John finally says. "It's bloody freezing outside."

Sherlock huffs in annoyance, but they both know it's for the sake of form. They fall into a comfortable silence, punctuated now and then by the careful sip of too-hot tea. 

"You know," John says after a while, "Maybe you should just move back. You spend enough time here as it is."

Sherlock turns towards him abruptly, eyes flicking over the familiar lines of John's face. John is staring out of the window, but he turns, as if feeling the weight of Sherlock's gaze on him.

"We always got along well enough before," John comments with a small smile.

Sherlock is still processing the possible motives for John's suggestion, even as he replies, "Surely you've enjoyed the peace and quiet. And the lack of mess."

John laughs lowly, but there is a shadow in his expression. "You can have too much peace and quiet." He forces cheer into his voice when he continues. "Besides, I could use someone to help pay the rent."

This is a blatant lie. Sherlock knows that John is receiving money from Marcus's pension and, as soon as the paperwork goes through, he'll be receiving a large portion of inheritance as well, thanks to the intervention of Marcus's siblings. He has no need of a flatmate, and yet he clearly doesn't want to live alone. There are a number of reasons why moving back would be a bad idea, but Sherlock has known his answer from the moment the idea passed John's lips.

"There's much more room for my experiments here," Sherlock allows.

"Is that a 'yes'?" 

Sherlock holds John's gaze for several long moments, before speaking up. "I'll have my things moved after the weekend."

John grins - the first proper grin Sherlock has seen in many weeks - and Sherlock can't help smiling back. He's an idiot, truly, but 221b is home, has always been home, and he can't wait to return.

*

"What the hell happened here?"

John stands in the doorway to the kitchen, looking upon a scene of chaos. Sherlock crawls out from under the table, covered in the same green goop that's dripping down most of the kitchen. 

"Just a slight miscalculation," Sherlock says, getting to his feet. He looks like the monster from an old black-and-white film, goo oozing from his curls and soaking through - and probably ruining - what is undoubtedly an expensive shirt. 

John takes another look around the kitchen, at the mess that is sticking to every surface, and he can't help but laugh. Once he's started, he can't stop, because it's ridiculous and it's Sherlock and it's the most bizarre thing he's ever seen and, well, he hasn't had much cause to laugh recently. After only a short pause in which to recover from his surprise, Sherlock joins him, his baritone chuckle filling the room alongside John's higher-pitched giggle. 

When they finally calm down, John throws off his jacket and rolls his sleeves up. "Right, first of all, I'm guessing this isn't toxic."

"I hope not," Sherlock answers, picking at the slime sticking to his shirt.

John shakes his head. "Go and clean up," he instructs Sherlock. "I'll get started on this mess."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "You always made me clean up by myself before."

"Yeah, well, consider this a housewarming present. Anyway, I want to eat at some point tonight."

"We'll go to Angelo's," Sherlock says, already heading for the bathroom.

"Fine, but don't think you're getting out of cleaning this up," John calls.

Sherlock slips out of his shirt, dropping it to the floor outside the bathroom. "Wouldn't dream of it," he calls back, disappearing into the bathroom and leaving John smiling and shaking his head in disbelief. 

Sherlock has been back in the flat all of three days, and he's already caused mayhem - but, in the process, he has provided a bright spot in John's otherwise dull days. And that is exactly why John wanted him around. 

With Sherlock blowing up their kitchen, covering the living room with his junk, and dragging John out to dinner night after night on the flimsiest excuses, John has less and less time to sit around by himself. And if he has less time to sit around, he has less time to think about Marcus. That doesn't mean that Marcus isn't in his thoughts, and his dreams, but it does mean that he finds it a lot easier to avoid falling into the bouts of all-consuming depression that plagued him in the first few weeks; time in which he lost hours whilst absorbed in the agony of his loss and his hopelessness for the future. Instead, he lets the constant whirlwind of life with Sherlock occupy him, and Sherlock never disappoints, providing enough excitement in just a few days to bring 221b back to life. 

John hears the shower shut off and Sherlock appears in a brief, towelled flash before disappearing into his room - the room which was John and Marcus's for two years, and which John can hardly bear to set foot in anymore. That damned room is once again the home of painful memories, and John was more relieved than he let on when Sherlock agreed to move in there without argument. In a way, things have come full circle and it's as if the last three and a half years never happened. John can't help but wonder what his life would have been like if Sherlock hadn't stepped off the roof of St. Barts. Would he have still met Marcus? Would he have lost him the same way?

Before he can get drawn into that line of thinking, Sherlock reappears and, without a word, grabs a cloth and starts wiping stringy, congealing slime from the worktop. 

"You know, I bet Mycroft has a deep-clean team," Sherlock muses out loud. 

"No," John says with a laugh. "You are not getting out of it."

Sherlock huffs, but goes back to cleaning. In no time, the kitchen is as clean as it's ever going to be. John throws the cloths he's used in the bin and lets out a noise of satisfaction.

"Dinner?" Sherlock prompts.

"Yeah alright, let me just wash up."

John has a cursory wash and changes his shirt, and then they head out together to Angelo's. 

*

Two weeks after the conclusion of his latest case, boredom has sunk its claws into Sherlock and is slowly dragging him under. He wakes, angry at the world, and spends the morning in a strop, wishing John was there just so he had someone to interact with. All of the cases on his website are dull, obvious, _tedious_ , and Lestrade stopped answering his texts two days ago. He can't even think of any worthwhile experiments. 

Sherlock is truly at a loss and when his phone rings just after lunchtime, he doesn't even pause before answering the call.

"Good afternoon, brother."

Sherlock bites back the curse that threatens to slip out. "What do you want?"

Seemingly sensing Sherlock's irritation, Mycroft wastes no time getting to the point. "I have a small task for you."

"And why would you think I'd be at all inclined to help you?"

"Because you're bored." 

Annoyingly, he has a point there, but Sherlock is not going to make it that easy. Frustrating his brother is one of the few pleasures he has.

"Not interested."

"Let's not play this game," Mycroft says with a hint of amusement. "You are bored, and you do so like it when I am indebted to you."

"I have better things to do than your legwork."

"Such as pining over dear Doctor Watson?" 

Sherlock scowls. "Piss off, Mycroft."

"Do you really think moving back in was a good idea?"

"Goodbye."

Sherlock hangs up before his brother can say anything more. He throws his phone onto the table and curls up into a dejected ball on the sofa. 

A moment later, the door to the flat opens and Sherlock turns to find Mycroft giving him a quietly smug smile. "So predictable, brother."

Sherlock turns his back pointedly. Mycroft carries on regardless. "All I need you to do is come to a party and watch someone for me."

"Why?"

"Just watch him and tell me everything."

Despite himself, Sherlock is intrigued and he turns slightly towards his brother. "One of yours?"

"Not at present, no."

Sherlock considers this for a moment, quickly coming to a decision. It isn't difficult with boredom looming like a black cloud on the horizon. 

"Good," Mycroft says before Sherlock even has a chance to speak. "I'll send you all the details. And an invitation."

"For two," Sherlock states firmly.

"Of course."

Mycroft departs as quietly as he arrived, leaving Sherlock to mull over what little he can deduce from his brother's words and behaviour. 

*

"So, why exactly are we going to Mycroft's fancy party?" John asks, fiddling with his cuffs as the taxi makes its way through London's evening traffic.

"Espionage."

"What, we're going to spy on someone?"

"No, we're going to observe someone who's a suspected spy."

John shakes his head in bemusement. "Right."

He glances over at Sherlock, who has what John can only describe as his game face on. He's already caught up in the mystery, and it couldn't be better timing. John had noticed Sherlock's increasing irritation as the days went by with no case, and Mycroft's seemingly simple request is just what was needed. A bit of time out of the flat will be good for Sherlock too. And for John himself, even if he's far from being in a party mood.

The taxi drops them in front of a grand Victorian hotel that seems like just the kind of place Mycroft would choose for a party. Sherlock flashes their invitation at the doorman, who waves them in with an overly bright smile. 

"High on caffeine pills," Sherlock whispers as they pass, and John has to struggle to contain his smile. 

Another attendant offers to take their coats before they've barely taken another step and, once that is done, he guides them towards the function room. The sounds of the party are already audible as they draw closer and as soon as another doorman throws open the doors to let them in, the low murmur increases to a loud discordant mix of voices and a string quartet. The room is filled with people, some of them familiar (politicians, journalists, businessmen), many of them not. A large buffet table stands at one side of the room, filled to bursting with a huge variety of foods. All in all, it's very Mycroft.

"So, how do we find this bloke we're supposed to be-"

"Shush," Sherlock hisses, cutting him off, eyes scanning across the room. "Don't worry about that. Just... enjoy the party."

John rolls his eyes but doesn't argue, and when a waiter walks past with a tray of champagne, John helps himself to one of the glasses. Just as he's turning back to Sherlock, he spots Mycroft approaching out of the corner of his eye.

"His Majesty at four o'clock," he murmurs to Sherlock, and Sherlock flashes a brief grin before turning to greet his brother with his more familiar scowl.

"So glad you could come, Sherlock. John."

"Yes, yes. Don't worry about us," Sherlock says dismissively. "Get back to your schmoozing."

Mycroft purses his lips in annoyance, then melts back into the crowd without a word. They both watch the room for a while, Sherlock presumably trying to find his spy and John left to do some celebrity-spotting.

"Isn't that Richard Branson?" John whispers, distracted by the sight of the businessman.

"Who?" 

"You must be kidding-" John looks up to see Sherlock giving him a teasing smile. "You arse." 

Sherlock's attention returns to the room, intent, and John rocks on the balls of his feet for a few moments, before giving up. "I'm going to get some food. Want anything?"

Sherlock's distracted "No" is no surprise, and John smiles, before heading towards the giant buffet table. There is a truly impressive selection of food and John happily fills up a plate, taking bites of some things as he makes his way along the table. He reaches the end and almost collides with 'Anthea' as he turns to move away.

"Oh, hello."

It's a shock to see her without her ever-present Blackberry, but then he doesn't know where she'd put it in her daringly skimpy dress.

"Hello," she says.

There is a moment of awkward silence, then 'Anthea' speaks up again. "I was sorry to hear about your loss."

"Oh." And just like that, John's appetite is gone. "Thank you."

After another pause, John shuffles his feet. "Well, I'd better be..."

"Of course."

"Have a good evening."

"You too."

John escapes and threads his way back through the heaving mass of people towards where he left Sherlock, his plate of food precariously balanced in one hand. He finally breaks through, and comes to a slightly surprised halt when he sees that Sherlock is not alone.

The blonde-haired man talking to Sherlock is attractive - almost too attractive - and the first thing John notices is that he's much closer than Sherlock would usually allow strangers. For a man who has no concept of other people's personal space, Sherlock can be quite territorial when it comes to his own. And yet, this man is standing less than half a foot away, and even as John looks on he presses a hand to Sherlock's arm. Sherlock just smiles at the stranger and John has to stop and process for a minute because it sure as hell looks like Sherlock is flirting.

John has seen Sherlock flirt twice, and he didn't put much effort in either time - just enough to get the information he needed. John recognises that smile, though, from Sherlock's 'charming' arsenal. And yet, maybe because it is so rare and has been so long, he can't figure out if Sherlock is shamming or not. This is such an unexpected occurrence that it takes John an embarrassingly long time to realise that he's just standing there on the edge of a crowd of people with his plate of food.

He doesn't quite know what to do. Should he leave them to it? Or should he stay nearby, just in case it isn't what he thinks and Sherlock needs an exit. He is paralysed by indecision when Sherlock suddenly looks up and spots him. Sherlock beams at him, and waves him forward.

John joins them and Sherlock takes his arm excitedly. "There you are!" 

Sherlock turns to the stranger and gives him what John recognises as a fake grimace. "We've got to go, but it was so nice to talk to you."

"You too," the man says a little hesitantly, looking between them somewhat expectantly. 

John's not stupid and he quickly wraps an arm around Sherlock's waist and grins at the stranger. "Sorry to have to whisk him away. I can't leave him alone for two seconds," he says in a conspiratorial whisper. 

He turns to give Sherlock a fond smile, and finds Sherlock staring at him, although he quickly snaps out of it. "I told you not to leave me," Sherlock simpers.

"Come on then, you."

John steers Sherlock away, leaving him to throw a 'goodbye' over his shoulder as John leads him through the crowd and out into the lobby. They keep going right out the door and down the street, and then jump into a taxi. Two seconds later, they make the mistake of catching each other's eye, and end up laughing helplessly for several minutes.

When he's finally calmed down, John wipes his eyes and shakes his head. "What was that all about?"

"You were very good, I wasn't sure you'd catch on quickly enough."

"Well, I wasn't sure if you were actually flirting with him."

"Of course not," Sherlock scoffs in disdain. 

"Then what were you doing? You looked pretty friendly to me."

"I couldn't risk scaring him away completely," Sherlock explains.

"Why?"

"Because he was the man Mycroft wanted me to watch."

John laughs. "I get the feeling Mycroft wasn't necessarily looking to find out that he goes for the tall, dark and handsome type."

Sherlock gives him an odd look and then turns away. "With Mycroft, you never know. Anyway, he was eyeing you up when you came over."

"Only because he thought I was with you. Looks just like the type to enjoy a challenge."

Sherlock huffs in amusement.

"You would have made a very attractive couple," John says slyly. 

Sherlock scoffs. "You know I'm married to my work."

"Of course," John answers, smiling. "What a satisfying relationship that must be."

"What could be more satisfying than solving puzzles?" Sherlock says.

"I've no idea," John teases. He glances over and meets Sherlock's eyes and they both grin. 

John eventually turns away, watching the lights of London go past. He wonders if Sherlock ever gets lonely, with only his work to keep him warm at night, but when John thinks of his own cold bed waiting for him, he thinks maybe Sherlock has the right idea. They say that it's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all, but when John wakes every morning, alone, knowing that Marcus will never be by his side again, he finds that hard to believe.


	14. Chapter 14

_January 2015_

The holiday season passes quickly and quietly in Baker Street. Neither of them feels any great desire to celebrate this year, so they don't. They eat Chinese takeaway for Christmas dinner and watch crap television on New Year's Eve whilst London reverberates with the sound of fireworks. It's actually one of the more enjoyable Christmas holidays John has experienced. 

The new year brings new cases and they are busier than ever before. John finds himself caught up in the excitement just as he was when he first met Sherlock five years ago. Their latest case is straightforward enough - even John can see that - but the men they're dealing with are dangerous, and that makes John wary. Sherlock, on the other hand, is just as reckless as ever, and it comes as no surprise when John leaves work and finds an alarming text from Sherlock waiting for him.

_Armed assistance at Simmons' warehouse gratefully received. SH_

The message is only a few minutes old, and he hails a cab even as he's cursing Sherlock under his breath.

"Baker Street, quickly," he shouts as he scrambles into the cab. The cabbie seems to sense the urgency and almost certainly breaks the speed limit several times as he rushes John home.

"Wait here," John says, climbing out and dashing up the stairs to his room. He pulls his gun from its hiding place, checks the ammunition, then tucks it into his waistband. He races back downstairs and jumps into the waiting cab, giving the address of the warehouse where their main suspect, Andrew Simmons, does his business.

John tries ringing Sherlock's phone several times while he crosses town, but it goes straight through to voicemail every time. "Damn it, Sherlock!" he hisses under his breath.

He has the cabbie stop just round the corner, shoving a twenty-pound note at him as he jumps out. 

"Hey, what about your change?" the cabbie calls after him.

"Keep it!"

John jogs off down the street, his heart thumping in his chest, adrenaline coursing through him. The warehouse is one of several units huddled together on a rather dilapidated industrial estate. They were here just last night, scoping the place out. He should have known Sherlock would be stupid enough to come back by himself. John slips through one of the alleys between the buildings, his fingers just touching the handle of his gun. 

Simmons's warehouse is just up ahead, past the next junction, and he hurries onwards. And that's when he hears the gunshots. His heart falters, and then he whips his gun from his waistband, flicks the safety off, and rushes forward. He has no real plan apart from finding Sherlock. 

Suddenly, there is a crash from somewhere overhead and his head flies up, just as two figures crash through a window on the top floor and hurtle towards the ground, glass raining down around them. 

"Sherlock!" he screams, the sound ripped from him as soon as he recognises that dark coat. 

The bodies hit the ground with a thud about thirty feet away, and everything tilts sideways. For a moment he is back at the foot of Bart's, staring blindly at Sherlock's broken body. He thinks he might be sick, even as he forces himself forward. 

"Sherlock," he rasps. 

There is still no movement from either of the men and as soon as he gets close, he sees Simmons' vacant eyes. John's attention shifts to Sherlock and the blood trickling down over his forehead. He drops to the floor, his knees unable to hold him up any longer, his hand shaking as he reaches out helplessly.

Just as his fingers make contact, Sherlock takes a huge gasping breath and his eyes flutter open. 

"Oh God," John breathes, dizzy with relief.

Sherlock tries to sit up instantly and John places a firm hand on his chest, holding him still. "Don't move."

His voice is shaking and tears are welling up in his eyes, but he can't help it.

"John," Sherlock wheezes.

"You're fine."

"I know. Let me up."

John laughs brokenly. "You're not that fine. You just fell out of a third storey window."

"I've had worse," Sherlock jokes weakly and John is torn between laughing hysterically and slapping him. 

"You bastard."

"I'm fine," Sherlock says, reaching out to grab John's arm and even though John should be the one reassuring Sherlock, he lets out a harsh breath and sags forward, his head pressed to Sherlock's chest. 

"I saw you fall."

"I know," Sherlock whispers, his hand coming to rest on the back of John's head. 

"Don't... don't do that again. I already lost him. I couldn't bear it if I lost you as well."

"I'm fine," Sherlock says again, breathlessly, his other arm wrapping around John. "I'm fine, John." He pauses for a moment, then continues. "I might have broken a few ribs though."

John pulls back quickly, brow creased in concern as his hand hovers over Sherlock's ribs.

"Nothing to worry about," Sherlock gets out, his breath warm on John's cheek, and John turns his head to meet those pale blue eyes. Sherlock's expression is softer than he's ever seen it, almost tender, and John raises a gentle hand to the cut on his forehead.

"You scared the hell out of me."

"Sorry," Sherlock breathes, his eyes fluttering closed at the first brush of John's fingers. His breath hitches, and John pulls his hand away.

"Does it hurt?"

"It does now you've stopped touching me."

John goes completely still with surprise and Sherlock's eyes fly open, shock and horror flooding his expression. 

"Ignore me," Sherlock chokes out, and he's already trying to sit up before John's doctorly brain kicks in and he forces Sherlock back down again. Sherlock screws his eyes shut, and he looks more pained than he did before.

"Sherlock," John gets out uncertainly.

"It must be concussion," Sherlock cuts in, his voice shrill with what sounds almost like panic. And it's that panic which convinces John that it wasn't just concussion talking. He sits back on his heels heavily, his mind whirling.

"I thought... I mean... you always said..."

Sherlock's eyes shoot open again, scanning John's face quickly before he forces them away to the side. "Lestrade will be here soon," he gets out brusquely. "You don't have to stay."

"Don't be stupid."

Oh God, he's been so blind, so foolish. All this time... Sherlock refuses to meet his eyes, and it's unbearable.

"Sherlock, we need to-"

The wail of sirens interrupts him and a moment later, he hears footfalls coming in on every side. 

"Here!" he shouts. "Bring the paramedics."

Lestrade rounds the nearest corner, flanked by a number of officers. His eyes sweep over the scene in one quick movement.

"Is he alright?" he asks John, obviously not trusting Sherlock to tell the truth.

"I'm fine," Sherlock says with a hint of annoyance.

"Probable broken ribs," John gets out, his mouth dry. "Concussion. He needs to be checked over at the hospital."

"I do not-"

John silences him with a fierce look, and Sherlock averts his gaze once more. The paramedics appear and John updates them on what happened as they gently strap a collar around Sherlock's neck as a precaution, then lift him onto a stretcher. John follows them to the ambulance, but Sherlock's strained voice stops him at the doors. 

"I'll see you at home."

It's an obvious dismissal and John steps back, stunned, as the paramedics pull the doors shut. Lestrade is talking at him, but he doesn't hear a word. He watches in silence as the ambulance pulls away and turns onto the main road, disappearing quickly out of sight.

*

Sherlock's ribs are strapped in A&E - one broken, three bruised, he was lucky - and after his forehead has been checked and cleaned up, he is allowed to go home.

"Do you have someone to pick you up?" the nurse asks.

Sherlock goes through his choices. "Yes." He gives her Lestrade's contact details and she hurries off to call him, no doubt eager to free up his bed.

Lestrade turns up an hour later, worried eyes flicking over Sherlock, even as he tries to cover with a smile. "You're not going near tall buildings anymore, alright?"

Sherlock just gives him an exasperated look and rises gingerly to his feet, a sudden twinge of pain in his torso making his breath rush out. 

"Are you sure you're allowed to leave?" Lestrade says with concern, taking a step towards him.

"I'm fine," Sherlock says for about the twentieth time.

Lestrade frowns, but stands back to let him through the door. It's slow going with Sherlock's sore ribs, but they eventually get to Lestrade's car and Sherlock lowers himself into the passenger seat as carefully as he can.

"Home then?" Lestrade asks pointedly, and Sherlock throws his head back against the seat's headrest.

"I need a place to stay," he says weakly.

"What the hell happened?" Lestrade gets out. "John was acting really strangely before he left."

"It's nothing."

Lestrade makes a noise of discontent but apparently decides to leave it for now, because he starts the car and, once they get underway, it's obvious they are heading out to the suburbs and not towards Baker Street.

Lestrade gets Sherlock settled on the sofa in his living room and reheats leftovers for the both of them. Sherlock picks at the shepherd's pie, but between the painkillers and the faint panic in his chest, he feels too queasy to eat much. He just wants to hide away, but Lestrade is never going to allow that. As soon as he's finished eating, he puts his plate to one side and folds his arms across his chest, focusing his steady gaze on Sherlock.

"Now, are you going to tell me what happened?"

"You're not a very good nurse," Sherlock says. "I'm supposed to be 'taking it easy'."

"If you wanted nursing, you should've gone home to John."

Sherlock winces and turns away. He hears Lestrade let out a huff of annoyance.

"It's personal."

"Well, yeah, I kind of figured that," Lestrade says sarcastically. "What did you say?"

"Why do you assume it was me?" Sherlock retorts and Lestrade just raises an eyebrow at him.

"So, what did you say to make him look so- Oh."

Sherlock searches Lestrade's expression quizzically as he cuts himself off. Lestrade meets his eyes, the lines of his face softening.

"You finally told him then?"

Sherlock is stunned for a moment, and then he hangs his head, the fight gone as he remembers the look on John's face.

"Not in so many words."

"Jeez." Lestrade exhales noisily. "I was starting to think you were never going to say anything, what with, well, everything that's happened."

"How did you know?" Sherlock asks quietly.

"I've seen the way you look at him. And the way you were around him and Marcus... Well, it was obvious, to me at least."

"And to Marcus," Sherlock adds, raising his head once more.

"Marcus knew?" 

"Yes. He told me so the day he died."

Lestrade shakes his head in amazement.

"So what are you going to do?"

"I don't know!" Sherlock bites out agitatedly. This is all so far out of his comfort zone.

"Hiding isn't going to do anyone much good, you realise. You need to talk to John."

"Don't be ridiculous."

Lestrade raises an eyebrow, giving him an assessing look. "Never took you for a coward, Sherlock."

Sherlock says nothing, staring off to one side. The thought of talking it through with John makes his chest tight with dread.

"Look," Lestrade continues softly, "You can stay here tonight, while you get your head together, but tomorrow you have to go home."

Sherlock doesn't reply, lost in thoughts of how John might greet him, now that he has ruined their friendship.

Not long after that, Lestrade forces him upstairs to one of the spare rooms to get some proper rest, and Sherlock spends hours in a restless half-sleep, kept awake by the pain in his ribs and the agitation of his thoughts.

*

John spends the morning in a sort of restless anticipation. Lestrade sent him a text first thing to say that Sherlock would be home later, and John is half dreading it. He still can't make any sense of his confused thoughts beyond a vague sort of bewilderment. 

When he hears the door close downstairs and the hesitant tread of an injured person (emotionally injured as well, maybe), John sits up very straight in his chair, whilst still trying to look calm and relaxed. Slowly, slowly, Sherlock climbs the stairs and finally reaches the door, stepping hesitantly across the threshold.

"Hello," John forces out awkwardly, as Sherlock lowers himself carefully to the sofa.

"Hello."

"How are you feeling?" John can't help asking (ribs clearly hurting, forehead almost completely healed).

"Fine. Thank you."

They fall into a tense silence that makes John shift in his seat. Sherlock won't look at him and he looks so uncomfortable John can't stand it.

"Look, we need to talk about this."

Sherlock closes his eyes and lets out a sigh. He looks exhausted and broken, but John knows they can't just pretend nothing happened. With this thought in mind, John forces himself to talk.

"I don't... I don't know how-" He clears his throat in embarrassment. "How serious this is. For you."

Sherlock's penetrating gaze stops him in his fumbling. "How many people do you suppose I've ever had _feelings_ for before?" he asks sharply.

"I... I have no idea."

"One," Sherlock snaps. "Just one before. So I think you can see I'm not the type to have superficial crushes."

"I thought as much," John says hesitantly, and then before he can stop himself, he asks: "What happened? Before?"

"Considering I haven't seen him in ten years, I think you can probably guess," Sherlock grits out. He's clearly getting himself worked up and John doesn't know what to do. He's feeling an increasingly strong urge to run away, but he knows if he does, he could lose Sherlock forever. He scrubs a hand across his face and takes a fortifying breath.

"Sherlock, I... You're my best friend, you know that."

As if he knows what's coming (he probably does), Sherlock's eyes flutter closed, as if he's preparing himself for the pain. John forces himself to continue.

"And I care about you. When I watched you fall yesterday - I thought - I realised that I don't know what I'd do without you." He swallows hard. "I lost you once before and it was, frankly, awful."

Sherlock still hasn't opened his eyes.

"But... I care about you as a friend. _Only_ as a friend. I'm so sorry if-"

"You've said enough," Sherlock cuts in, finally opening his eyes again, a desperate tone in his voice. "I know. I've always know. And I never... expected anything." He lets out a low, pained whine. "I would have been quite happy for you never to find out."

John wonders yet again how he could have been so blind.

"I understand if you'd prefer me to move out," Sherlock continues in a tight voice.

"I don't want you to move out," John interrupts in a firm tone. "We're both grown ups. This doesn't have to change anything."

Sherlock laughs bitterly. "It already has. And it will continue to do so."

"I don't-"

"You won't be able to stop thinking about it, questioning everything I've ever done."

 _Too late for that_ , John thinks. "Do you want to leave?" he says instead.

"Maybe," Sherlock admits.

"Well then, that'll be your decision, not mine."

Sherlock finally meets his eyes, blue eyes filled with unfamiliar uncertainty. He looks like a man desperately in need of reassurance.

"Good luck finding someone else to put up with thumbs in the fridge, though," he teases, hoping to dispel some of the tension.

"They're vital to an experiment I'm planning," Sherlock protests, though with none of his usual haughtiness.

"What is it, an experiment in rotting flesh?"

"Yes," Sherlock answers. 

"Of course it is," John murmurs, smiling softly.

His eyes meet Sherlock's again and he wishes he could just tell him that everything was going to be normal again in no time, but he can't because he's still trying to wrap his head around the whole thing. There are a million questions running through his head, things he can never ask Sherlock, but about which he is painfully curious. He pushes the thoughts aside, determined to set Sherlock at ease.

"Come on, take your coat off and I'll put the kettle on. When was the last time you had some painkillers?"

"First thing this morning," Sherlock says, slipping out of his coat in a series of stilted movements, his face creasing in pain.

"Definitely time for some more." 

John steps forward and takes Sherlock's coat, his fingers just grazing Sherlock's and causing Sherlock to jerk his hand back as if burnt. He tries to make it seem natural as he settles back against the sofa cushions. "Thank you. Tea would be lovely."

"Don't think I'm waiting on you hand on foot," John jokes.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

John laughs and moves to hang Sherlock's coat, before slipping through to the kitchen to make tea. When he returns, he finds that Sherlock has fallen asleep and he smiles fondly, returning to his own seat with his mug and the newspaper. 

*

Sherlock wakes to the dim light of late afternoon and levers himself up, the pain in his ribs a sudden, persistent ache now that he is awake again. He looks around in confusion and spots John slumped in his chair, asleep. Sherlock manages to get himself to his feet and makes his way through to his bedroom as quietly as he can. John looked just as exhausted as he did earlier, a sure clue that the matter of Sherlock's feelings was more perturbing than he'd let on. That isn't something Sherlock wants to dwell on now, though.

He's in desperate need of a shower so he goes through into the bathroom, taking his clothes off with only some difficulty. He unwinds the bandages strapping his ribs and throws them on the counter, before stepping into the bath and under the warm spray. He sinks to the bottom of the bath, letting the water fall on his head and back, washing away a couple of days' worth of dirt and tension.

When he's done, he climbs out and dries as best he can and slips back through to his room. He gets partially dressed, and then has to address the problem of restrapping his chest. It's not going to be easy to do, and in fact the nurse had told him not to try it by himself, although he's tempted. He's not completely idiotic, though, so he knows he's left with only one choice.

Sherlock walks through to the living room, feeling (ridiculously) more naked without his shirt than he did wearing nothing but a sheet in Buckingham Palace. John is still sleeping, his head resting on his hand.

"John."

Light sleeper that he is, John starts awake instantly and does a double-take when he sees Sherlock standing in front of him half-naked. His eyes linger visibly on the bruises that are just starting to turn from dark purple to blue-green and his expression softens with compassion.

"I need your help," Sherlock explains. "I'm unable to redo the bandages myself. If you'd rather not-"

"Don't be stupid," John cuts in, already getting to his feet. He clears his throat awkwardly and waves Sherlock forward.

"Let's, err, go to the bathroom."

Sherlock leads the way and perches on the edge of the bath as John prepares the bandages. John has patched him up more times than he can count in recent years, yet Sherlock's revelation hangs over them, making what is quite a regular occurrence at 221b fraught with tension.

"Alright then," John says unnecessarily as he moves closer. He meets Sherlock's eyes, hands outstretched, and Sherlock nods, holding his arms out to one side. 

John presses gentle fingers to Sherlock's ribs and Sherlock flushes with the memory of his words from yesterday. 

"Only one broken?" John asks.

"Yes," Sherlock answers in a strained voice. "Apparently I should count myself lucky."

"You should."

John reaches for the bandages and unravels the end, before reaching behind Sherlock to loop the first strip around his middle. It's all Sherlock can do to keep still and keep his breathing even; it seems that John knowing his feelings has had a strange effect on his desire, pushing it to the fore even more, harder to control for the fact that he has been hiding it for so long. 

His breath hitches with discomfort as the bandages tighten around his ribs.

"Tell me if it's too much," John says, absorbed in his work and oblivious to Sherlock's (inappropriate) torment. "They need to be as tight as you can bear."

Sherlock doesn't trust himself to speak, and when John glances up, he forces himself to nod. John gives him a reassuring smile and goes back to work.

John finally fastens the bandage and sits back with a noise of contentment. Sherlock lets out a shaky breath, trying to bring himself back to something like calm.

"Thank you," he croaks out.

John looks at him then, really looks at him, and he's no fool, he can see what reaction his simple touch has caused. Sherlock can feel the redness in his cheeks spreading down his neck, to his chest. John's eyes widen ever so slightly and Sherlock forces himself to unsteady feet.

"Thank you," he repeats, fleeing the bathroom to the safety of his room. He drops onto his bed and twists his hands in his hair in frustration. If it wasn't bad enough that his mouth ran away from him and got him into this mess in the first place, now his body is betraying him even further, and he doesn't know how to regain control. How on earth can he salvage what remains of their friendship if he can't reign in his emotions? Maybe moving out will be his only option, but even as he considers it, his chest feels hollow. He can't leave but he's too afraid to stay, and he's never felt so lost.


	15. Chapter 15

_June 1997_

"Sherlock... I don't know what to say."

Sherlock swallows hard, tries to ignore the warmth lingering on his lips.

"You... you know I'm straight, right?"

"Of course," Sherlock gets out. This might just be the most humiliating moment of his life.

"Right." Awkward throat-clearing. "Look, I... I'm really sorry. I didn't even realise you felt that way about me, otherwise I would've... said something."

When Sherlock can finally bring himself to move, he takes a step backwards. And another one.

"I have to go," he gets out.

"What? Sherlock, wait a minute. I-"

"It doesn't matter," he says. "Forget it."

Sherlock runs, away from the embarrassment, away from his feelings. He runs and he finds solace in the only thing that makes sense to him anymore, immersing himself in the problem thrown up by his latest experiment. 

He doesn't even realise he's crying until his vision is so blurred he has to put down the pipette he's holding. He wipes his face angrily, marshals his self-control, and continues his experiment. 

He avoids the dining hall that night, and for several nights after that, and spends very little time in his room, making the lab his home. Humiliation sings high and tight in his chest, cold logic the only thing that seems to distract from it. Science is all he has left, and he loses himself in it, blocking everything else out. He will not make the same mistake again.

*

_January 2015_

"Thanks for coming," John says as he sits down opposite Lestrade.

"I could do with a drink. It's been one hell of a week," Lestrade answers, raising his pint to his mouth.

"Same."

Lestrade sets his drink down again, brown eyes watching John intently. 

"I won't pretend I don't know what this is about."

"Then you know that Sherlock..." John trails off. He can hardly think the words, let alone say them.

"That Sherlock's in love with you," Lestrade finishes quietly. "And has been for a very long time."

John sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Am I the only one who didn't know?"

"I don't think it's as bad as all that," Lestrade reassures him. "There were just a few of us who knew Sherlock well enough to notice."

"A few of you? Who else?"

Lestrade hesitates for a moment before replying. "Marcus."

The memory of Marcus's cryptic behaviour when John had thought Sherlock had feelings for him comes back in a flash, all so clear now. Marcus had known then, or at least suspected. 

"He never said anything," John says out loud. The memories hurt less and less every day, but he still feels half-empty.

"Not to you, no."

John sighs, raises his head to meet Lestrade's eyes. "What do I do? I thought it would be easy to just... move past it, but everything's just awkward as arse right now."

"It's not just going to disappear," Lestrade reasons. "Hell, I don't know, it could be the first time in his life he's cared this much about anyone."

John keeps wondering about the mysterious 'one before'. 

"The point is," Lestrade continues, drawing his attention again. "This is probably a pretty big deal for Sherlock. He's not just going to be able to switch those feelings off."

"I know," John gets out. "I just... I don't know what to do."

"There's nothing you can do. He has to work through it on his own, and you might just have to give him his space."

"Yeah," John agrees softly. "I think you might be right."

Lestrade gives him a half smile, and the conversation moves on to less troubling topics.

*

The bar is crowded with people, and it's exactly the kind of place Sherlock usually avoids. It serves its purpose, though, and even as he leans against the bar, he can count at least three pairs of eyes watching him. He looks around and spots his first observer - and dismisses him outright (accountant, dull). The second looks promising (just got out of a relationship), but it is the third stranger that catches his eye. He's shorter than Sherlock and fair-haired, and Sherlock's self-aware enough to understand why he appeals more than the others.

The man, Luke, is an artist and musician and they bond over Bach's finest works. It's not the first time Sherlock's done this, but it's been a long time and he's never been this sober before. Nevertheless, he puts on his most charming smile and sends out all the right signals. It doesn't take long for Luke to suggest a relocation, and Sherlock readily agrees. When Luke kisses him while they're waiting for the taxi, it's a shock to his system; it's been so very long since he's been close to anyone and it's almost frighteningly intoxicating.

They stumble into the taxi and sit pressed together. He wonders how he has gone without intimacy all these years. His desire flares up like an itch under his skin, and when Luke presses a hand to his thigh, Sherlock gives him a hungry look, forcing himself to ignore the fact that Luke's eyes are the wrong shade of blue. The taxi sets them down outside Luke's building and they make their way upstairs in a silence of anticipation.

The door is barely shut behind them before Sherlock pounces, crowding Luke up against the door and kissing him. It's better than he's remembered, the crush of mouths and the slip-slide of tongues, the press of bodies.

"Bedroom," Luke gasps out, and Sherlock allows himself to be half-dragged along a dim corridor towards Luke's room.

He finds himself on his back on the bed in no time and he lets out a moan as Luke mouths at his trousers. He looks down through heavy-lidded eyes at blonde hair that's too blonde, and with not enough grey - and his heart sinks.

"Damn."

Luke raises his head in confusion. "Something wrong?"

Sherlock sits up sharply. "This was a mistake." 

He shuffles off the bed as Luke sits back out of the way, bewilderment splashed across his face. Sherlock runs a hand through his hair and makes for the door. He stops at the threshold, forces himself to turn and look Luke in the eye.

"I'm sorry."

Luke says nothing and Sherlock leaves, thoroughly disgusted by himself as he slips out of the house and makes off down the road. Luke's house isn't actually too far from Baker Street and the cool air helps to clear Sherlock's head as he walks the familiar streets. His heart slowly returns to its normal rhythm, but desire has tainted his blood, leaving his skin feeling warm and over-sensitive, something visceral and desperate squirming beneath the surface. 

221B comes into view, the light from the living room a welcome beacon and a stomach-turning warning at the same time. Any composure he had managed to regain is gone by the time he has climbed the seventeen steps and, when he finally forces himself into the flat, John looks up with a hesitant smile.

"Evening."

Sherlock reddens, shame and guilt marking his skin, even though he knows John is probably oblivious as to where he has been.

"Evening," he croaks out, hanging his coat up before heading into the kitchen. Anything to be away from John's gaze. He fiddles around with the experiment he started earlier, but can not concentrate properly.

"Night then."

John's voice startles him and he looks up to find John leaning on the doorframe, ill-at-ease but trying so hard for the sake of their friendship.

"Goodnight."

John smiles and disappears upstairs to his room. Sherlock pokes around the kitchen for a little while longer, then gives up and retreats to his own bedroom, throwing himself on the bed. 

He kicks his shoes off and reaches his hands up to twist in his hair, as if he could purge his mind if he only pulled hard enough. His skin tingles with every shift of fabric and it's unbearable. It's all too easy to reach down and press his hand to his cock through his trousers (still half-hard and showing renewed interest now). He tries to recall the image of Luke's mouth pressed to his crotch, but his mind's eye instantly supplants Luke's features with John's too-familiar face. He lets out an anguished noise at his treacherous mind, but he's hard now, rubbing against his own hand.

With a disgusted sigh he gives in, tugging his trousers open and shoving them and his boxers down his thighs. His hand is warm as he wraps it around his cock and he lets out an involuntary gasp, throwing his head back. Every nerve is singing, aching, hungry for more, and he rocks into his own grasp desperately. 

He is helpless now to stop the images his mind supplies, an endless montage of John: laughing, smiling, panted breath against his ear so close they could almost be fucking. He has no real data for the latter, but his imagination easily creates scenes that make him speed up his hand on his dampened cock. 

It really has been a very long time since he's had anyone's hands - even his own - on himself and as he reaches down with his free hand to fondle his sac, he feels sensation cresting already. His fingers brush his perineum and he chokes out a moan as the sharp spike of pleasure pushes him over the edge. 

Post-orgasmic lassitude does not last very long and all too soon his mind has returned to its usual buzz. He lies there with a wet patch on his shirt, and is disgusted with himself. Several long minutes pass while he is paralysed by self-hatred, and then he finally strips off his soiled clothing, discarding it in a pile by his bed.

He pulls on pyjamas and crawls under the covers, drawing them around him. He detests the creature he has become, driven by pointless desire. Useless. Distracted. There doesn't seem to be any way out of this mess, except the one option he still can't bring himself to properly consider: moving out. Living with John - and living with his resurgent libido - is torture, but the thought of going away is unbearable. Three years was long enough and he has no wish to repeat that experience. 

He sighs tiredly and rolls over onto his other side, the faint ache in his ribs a welcome distraction (and punishment). Eventually, he is pulled into a fitful sleep and dreams that further torment him.

*

It's been several weeks and the situation is getting increasingly intolerable. Sherlock vacillates between being hopelessly awkward, and just outright ignoring John. John can't take it any longer, but whenever he tries to say something, he either gets interrupted or he just can't get the words out right. He might as well be living with a stranger, for all of the interaction he has with Sherlock. He thinks he might be losing his best friend again after all, and he is powerless to stop it.

John pecks away at the computer, attempting to reply to an email from Harry and trying to ignore the fact that Sherlock - sitting just the other side of the room, tapping away on his phone - is ignoring him. The awkward silence is ruptured only moments later when John's phone goes off. John starts and pulls it from his pocket, staring at it blindly for a moment before answering it. He can't remember the last time someone called him, and the number is withheld so it's probably not Mike.

"Hello?"

"John."

"Mycroft."

He can practically feel Sherlock's attention being piqued from across the room.

"Why are you ringing me?" John asks. Mycroft has long since learned not to contact John.

"My brother has blocked my number."

"Right, well I'll just pass you over and-"

"I think you'd do best to hear this news for yourself," Mycroft cuts in even as John is halfway to his feet.

"What news?" 

"Sebastian Moran."

"What about him?" John gets out, his throat closing up.

"He has escaped from custody. Again."

There is a note of embarrassment in Mycroft's tone that, in any other situation, John would have enjoyed immensely.

"How is that possible?" John croaks.

"We're still working on that. In the meantime, you need to be extremely careful. We think Moran might be on his way out of the country but we can't be sure. As such, I have made arrangements to have you taken to a safe house within the next hour."

"I won't go," John states firmly. 

"I urge you to reconsider. I don't need to remind you what happened the last time Moran came after Sherlock."

"No, you don't need to remind me," John says icily. He can feel himself trembling with an excess of emotion and suddenly he can no longer bear to hear Mycroft's voice. "Here's Sherlock."

He turns to find Sherlock hovering at his side and startles, before handing over the phone. He wanders out into the landing, unsure whether he's heading to his room or outside, but he doesn't get as far as either - his legs go weak underneath him and he sinks to the floor, back pressed to the wall as he listens to the low murmur of Sherlock's voice in the next room.

What seems like an age later, Sherlock appears in the doorway and looks down at John in surprise, before crouching by his side. He goes to reach out for John, but stops himself halfway.

"I will stop him, John."

John reaches out across the space between them and grabs Sherlock's shoulder. "I'm coming with you."

"I need to keep you safe," Sherlock says firmly.

"It's too bloody late for that. I'm coming with you."

Their gazes lock for several long moments, and then finally Sherlock nods. "Ten minutes."

John nods back and forces himself to his feet. He doesn't know where they're going, but he trusts Sherlock completely.

*

It doesn't take long to work out that Moran is long gone. Between Mycroft's governmental contacts and Sherlock's more unofficial ones, they soon establish that Moran has fled to Europe. John doesn't hesitate to point out that he's obviously trying to draw Sherlock into a trap, but Sherlock is long past caring. He's caught Moran twice now and, this time, he will make it permanent. He gives John half an hour to pack, and plans his next step with Mycroft.

"My influence only stretches so far on the Continent," Mycroft reminds him.

"I think that's probably for the best, don't you?"

He can almost hear Mycroft's frown down the phone.

"Be careful, Sherlock."

Mycroft hangs up and Sherlock throws his phone aside. He crouches down and takes the spare handset and SIM from his bedside table, grabbing the power adapter as well. The rush of adrenaline is familiar and he throws a few more supplies into a bag, before meeting John in the living room.

John looks serious, angry, and deadly. There is a certain look to him when he's carrying his gun, even hidden as it is, and Sherlock has to stamp down on an inappropriate surge of desire. 

"Ready?" 

"Yes."

John doesn't ask where they're going, what the plan is, just follows Sherlock wordlessly to the door. A consummate soldier.

"I hope you've got your passport."

"Of course," John answers. 

"Good."

They say nothing more as they leave the house and grab the nearest taxi. Sherlock directs the driver to the airport and sits back in his chair, fingers tapping against his leg as he stares out of the window. It's the start of an adventure, but as the taxi carries them further from home, he can't help the unease that creeps up on him. There is so much at stake now. He's not only gambling with his own life this time, and he knows that John knows it too.

He glances over at John and their eyes meet. John holds his gaze, steady and certain, and for the first time in weeks, Sherlock doesn't feel the urge to turn away. There is a moment of silent acknowledgement, and then John looks away and Sherlock returns to his thoughts. He can't help wondering if it would have been this easy to take John with him three and a half years ago.


	16. Chapter 16

With a bit of assistance from Mycroft, they pick up Moran's trail in south-east France. John has no idea how they're going to track him any further, but is soon surprised to see that it is a skill Sherlock appears to have honed to perfection, and he's in his element. He has contacts almost everywhere, and when he doesn't he makes them. He has a way of winning people around with an efficiency that is almost frightening to behold. 

"You told that woman you were an only child," John says, watching from across the room as Sherlock scribbles in his notebook.

"People like talking to people who have similar backgrounds to themselves. Besides, I'd love to be an only child." 

Sherlock gives him a wide smile, but John can't let it go that easily.

"So you just lied to her."

Sherlock's smile fades away as his eyes track over John's face. "It bothers you."

"A little bit."

Sherlock frowns.

"I just find it a bit unnerving that one minute you're you, and the next you're this complete stranger," John explains awkwardly. 

As soon as he says it, he regrets it. They have fallen into their old ways out of necessity, but there have been odd moments of tension that prove all is not as well as they'd like to pretend.

"It gets results, doesn't it?" Sherlock says, cutting in on John's thoughts. 

John huffs. "Yeah. Yeah, it really does. You would've made a good actor."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and goes back to his notes. John has nothing to do, having given up on the newspaper when his GCSE French was insufficient to understand more than the odd word. Sherlock, of course, has no such problems; he's on the phone five minutes later, chatting away fluently.

He hangs up and presses his phone between his hands, touching the tips of his fingers to his lips.

"What is it?" John asks.

"He's moved again. Heading across the border into Germany."

"Where is he going?" John wonders out loud, turning to where they have a large map laid out across the table.

"I don't know," Sherlock mutters, voice edged with a note of frustration and John hears him get to his feet and cross the room. Sherlock pushes in next to him, hip to hip, his hands splayed wide across the map. 

John steps away and settles in one of the chairs. He can't shake the feeling that Moran knows exactly what he's doing and that he's leading them right where he wants them. 

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asks. John looks up to find Sherlock watching him closely.

"He's got a plan."

"Of course, he's not stupid."

"We don't know what that plan is," John continues. "We don't know what's waiting at the end of this."

"No, but we'll find out."

"By turning up exactly where he wants us and probably getting ourselves killed."

"That's not going to happen," Sherlock says with far more certainty than the situation warrants.

"You don't know that. He's a professional killer. He could probably take us both out before we even realised it."

Sherlock tenses for a moment, before he turns away dismissively. "He almost killed you once before and I stopped him."

John lets out a shaky breath. "All the more reason to be prepared."

"We will be." 

John doesn't feel much better, but he lets it go for now. He trusts Sherlock, always has, and in the end he's ready to do anything to get the man who took Marcus from him, however foolish it might be. 

*

Moran zigzags across the Black Forest before heading towards the Swiss border. John and Sherlock are only a few hours behind him, but the trail goes cold in the heart of Zurich.

"He can't just have disappeared," John reasons over dinner.

Sherlock hums distractedly, picking halfheartedly at his food whilst scrolling through the map on his phone with his free hand.

"Sherlock?"

"I don't know," he snaps, looking up just in time to see John's expression settle into a forced calmness. He sighs and drops his phone on the table, runs a hand through his hair. "Sorry."

"I just... I don't like this."

"No." It would be hard to miss, with concern practically oozing out of John's pores. Sherlock has no assurances to give him, no words to inspire confidence. Moran has taken the game to another level, and Sherlock has no idea of the rules. He taps a finger agitatedly against the screen of his phone.

"We'll find him," John says firmly, drawing Sherlock's gaze to his. He looks so confident, his faith in Sherlock as strong as it's ever been, and Sherlock knows he cannot fail. He will not fail.

His phone rings, making them both jump. He answers quickly: "Yes?" 

"Limmatquai. Vor zehn Minuten." His contact, Lukas, has always been a man of few words.

"Allein?" Sherlock asks.

"Ja."

"Danke."

He hangs up and meets John's expectant gaze. "He's still in the city. One of my contacts saw him at the Limmatquai not long ago."

"The Limmatquai?"

"It's in the old town, not far from here."

"Right, so, what's our plan?"

Sherlock looks out into the street. "We find a place to stay for the night."

"Let me guess, somewhere in the old town?"

Sherlock turns back and gives him a half-smile, before throwing some cash on the table and beckoning for John to follow him. "I know just the place."

*

When Sherlock said he knew somewhere they could stay, John hadn't been expecting this five-star hotel in the centre of Zurich. The room they are given by the owner, a gentle giant called Hans who reminds John vaguely of Angelo (and who was just as pleased to see Sherlock), is huge and almost certainly ridiculously expensive. John is almost afraid to sit down on any of the antique furniture, so he wanders over to the balcony windows as Sherlock puts on his politest smile and thanks the owner whilst guiding him towards the door. 

John steps out onto the balcony, looking out over the Limmat river and the ornate buildings lining the opposite bank. He takes a deep breath of fresh air and lets it out again, grounding himself with that simple act. He hears the main door shut and, moments later, Sherlock joins him in the balcony.

"Everything alright?" he asks Sherlock.

"Fine."

Sherlock shifts restlessly from foot to foot, before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a packet of cigarettes. John raises an eyebrow but says nothing, slipping back into the room and lowering himself onto the nearest bed with a sigh. 

John is just thinking about falling asleep right there, still in his clothes, when the room phone rings. He glances over at the balcony, but Sherlock hasn't moved. He rolls to his feet and rounds the bed to answer it.

"Hello?"

"I hope you're settling into your room alright," a strangely unaccented male voice says.

"Oh, err, yes. Thank you."

"Do you have everything you need?"

"Yeah, err, yes."

A moment's pause and then the voice speaks up again. "It's a lovely view, isn't it?"

"I suppose so. Look, sorry, is there a reason for this call? I'm about to go to bed."

"You should tell your friend to be careful."

"Excuse me?" John gets out, eyes flicking to the balcony again. 

"It would be an awful shame if he were to fall... Again."

The line goes dead and, after a moment of paralysing shock, John rushes for the balcony. "Sherlock, get down!"

Sherlock turns to him in surprise, and lets out an 'oof' as John grabs him by the wrist and yanks him inside, forcing him to the floor. "John, what are you-"

The glass of the window nearest them shatters, followed immediately by the one next to it. 

"Down!" John shouts, pushing Sherlock's face to the floor as he dives down next to him, arms tucked over his head. 

One after another, the line of windows explodes in a shower of glass and a cacophony of noise until, finally, it stops. John peeks up from the shelter of his elbow, chest heaving, heart pounding. He turns towards Sherlock, reaching out to grab his arm.

"Are you alright?"

Sherlock turns his head, a line of blood smeared across his cheek, and nods slowly. His eyes drop to John's hands. "You're bleeding."

"Minor cuts, it's fine. We need to get out of here."

Sherlock moves to push himself off the floor and John flattens a hand against his back. "Stay down."

Sherlock nods and wriggles his way behind the nearby sofa, John right behind him. They sit up, backs pressed to the seat, breathing heavily in the eerie silence.

"Moran," John says simply.

"Yes. A warning shot."

"I consider myself warned. Now what?"

"We go underground."

*

"When you said 'underground'," John says in a hushed whisper. "I didn't think you actually meant, you know, underground."

Sherlock ignores him, creeping down the last two steps and heading silently for the steel door at the end of the short corridor. He takes out the key Hans had retrieved from his safe and unlocks the door. This bolthole saved him more than once in the three years he was hunting down Moriarty's men, and he feels relieved as soon as the heavy door is shut behind them.

"What is this place?" John asks, looking around the small space that contains only a foldaway camping bed, a battered armchair, and a small cupboard.

"A safe place."

"And we didn't come here first because..."

Sherlock frowns and turns away to inspect the contents of the small cupboard - a first aid kit, several tins of food and, crucially, a gun. He pulls it out under John's watchful eye, testing the feel of it in his hand. 

"That also might have been useful before now," John comments.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and replaces the gun, before sinking into the armchair, his legs thrown over the side. He briefly contemplates having a cigarette, but he doesn't think John would take it very well.

"So what happens now?" John asks, moving to sit on the bed.

"We rest. Then we hunt."

"I hope you have more of a plan than that," John says with a tired smile. 

"I'm working on it," Sherlock replies, pressing his hands to his lips. John nods and rests his back against the wall, arms across his knees. He looks exhausted. 

"You should get some sleep," Sherlock suggests.

"I'm fine," John lies, sitting up a little straighter.

"You won't be much use if you're overtired."

"Neither will you," John counters. "Look, we'll take it in turns, alright? Get a few hours' sleep at least."

"Alright," Sherlock agrees. For once, he's not going to argue; he knows he needs to be on top form tomorrow if he's to outsmart Moran.

"Alright," John says, laying down in the bed. "Wake me in a bit."

"I will."

"You'd better," John warns.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and the room falls silent but for John shuffling as he settles into a comfortable position, his arms crossed over his chest. Sherlock can't help watching him as his body slowly relaxes and his breathing evens out, the lines of his face smoothing as sleep claims him. He finally tears his eyes away and forces his mind back to the problem at hand.

*

John wakes to darkness and it takes him a moment to remember where he is. He rolls over onto his side and looks over to the chair. 

"What time is it?" he croaks.

Sherlock doesn't even start at the sound of his voice. "Just gone four."

"You were supposed to wake me."

"You needed the rest more than me."

John sighs and rubs his hands over his face. He briefly considers the possibility of forcing Sherlock to bed, but gives it up just as quickly. 

Sherlock is really nothing more than a dark silhouette, an ephemeral shape in the gloom. John can't even properly make out his features.

"We talked about you," Sherlock suddenly says, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"What?" John gets out in confusion.

"After Marcus was shot. We talked about you."

John stills, his heart constricting unpleasantly in his chest.

"He... He had confronted me about my feelings for you half an hour before. And I couldn't lie to him. I wanted to but I was too busy trying to... trying to stop the bleeding."

John closes his eyes and takes a fortifying breath as Sherlock continues.

"He was so calm. He was... joking about it, about how it didn't hurt that much. I've never-" Sherlock's voice catches and he pauses, a silent shadow as John fights the trembling in his hand.

"He was a good man," Sherlock finally gets out. "One of the best men that I've ever known."

John lets out a shuddering breath. It's almost too much to take. "Why are you telling me this now?"

He can just make out Sherlock's face as he turns towards John. 

"Because I might not get another chance."

John is up and off the bed before he can think it through, crossing the distance between them and crouching down in front of the chair, his hands grasping Sherlock's arms.

"Don't say that," he says fiercely, emotion making his voice shake. "Don't even think like that, okay?"

"You know just as well as I do-"

"No," John cuts in, fingers digging into Sherlock's biceps. "Stop it."

"John-"

"Moran is the only one who's not walking away from this tomorrow, alright?"

Sherlock laughs brokenly. "You don't know that."

"Yes, I do. Now promise me. Promise me you won't let him win." John knows this isn't a rational request, and yet he's determined to hear Sherlock say the words. He reaches up to press a hand to Sherlock's nape, forcing him down to John's level.

"Promise me, Sherlock." 

"I promise," Sherlock gets out, his eyes closed, his expression twisted into something desperate.

John lets out a breath of relief, but can't let go, not just yet. He's too close - he can tell by the hitch in Sherlock's breath, and the pounding of his pulse under John's hand - but desperation keeps him close.

"Thank you," John whispers, breaking the silence as he finally lets go. Sherlock blinks and then visibly shakes off his daze, straightening up in the chair and putting even more distance between them.

"You should get some more sleep," he says in a hoarse voice.

"It's your turn," John reminds him, and Sherlock looks hesitantly towards the bed. "I'll wake you in two hours' time."

Sherlock turns back to him, but doesn't quite meet his eyes. "Thank you."

Sherlock crosses to the bed and throws himself down on it, his back to the room. John returns to his chair and settles in for a rather tedious wait.

*

It's a dream. Of course it is - he knows it even as he experiences it. And yet he can't help wishing it was real. John smiles at him warmly, curled up on one arm next to him. 

"I thought you were never going to wake up," John murmurs, running a hand over Sherlock's arm. "Big day ahead."

"Is it?"

"Yes." John grins. "Now get up."

The next thing Sherlock knows, he's doing up his shirt and John has disappeared. "John?"

"In here."

Sherlock follows his voice, but it's all wrong - he's in his old flat, Marcus's former flat.

"John?" he says again, heading towards the living room.

He rounds the corner and comes to a halt. Moran has John on his knees, a gun pointed at John's chest. He looks up and gives Sherlock a wide grin. "Hello again, Sherlock."

"Let him go."

"I don't think so."

Sherlock's eyes fly to John's face. "I trust you," John whispers, and a moment later the gun goes off, sending him backwards.

Moran disappears and Sherlock rushes to John's side, dropping to his knees. John is pale and shaking, his hand pressed to the gaping hole in his chest. 

"It's going to be alright."

"I don't think it is," John gets out shakily, studying his bloodied hands. "I think you might have killed me. Just like you killed Marcus." 

Sherlock makes a desperate noise in his throat.

"At least we'll be together again," John says with a smile that suddenly turns into a gurgle as blood pours from his mouth.

"John? John!"

"Sherlock, wake up."

Sherlock starts awake to find John watching him with concern, one hand pressed to his shoulder. Sherlock lets out a shuddering breath and closes his eyes as he sinks back into his pillow. He swallows hard, fighting to get his heart rate under control.

"Alright?" John asks softly, and Sherlock gives a jerky nod.

He does not know what today will bring, but he will do anything to make sure John is not harmed, even if it means sacrificing his own life - for real this time.


	17. Chapter 17

Sherlock has been in a weird mood all morning, ever since John woke him from what was obviously a nightmare. He's said barely a word to John since then, and has passed the time pacing the small room, interspersed with the odd terse phone call in German. John has no idea what's going on, but he trusts Sherlock to tell him at some point. 

John's just checking his gun (for about the hundredth time) when Sherlock comes to a stop in front of him. 

"It's time to go."

Sherlock won't look at him properly and John gets to his feet with a sigh, tucking his gun into his waistband. "Where exactly?"

"Out."

John grits his teeth but says nothing about Sherlock's evasive comment. He pulls on his coat and follows Sherlock to the door like the obedient soldier that he is. Sherlock hefts open the door and leads the way up the stairs. He pauses at the door which leads out into the street - well, alleyway - and listens intently before pushing it open. 

Sherlock steps out into bright sunshine and John follows, hand shielding his eyes before he turns to shut the door behind him. There is a blur of motion from John's left side but he has no time to react before a blow to the back of the neck sends him crumpling to the floor.

*

"Wakey wakey."

Sherlock opens his eyes carefully, the room swaying into focus as the sedative he'd been given wears off. He's in a low chair, his hands tied in front of him, but no further restraints. John, slumped unconscious in a chair across the room, is also similarly restrained. Sheer arrogance on Moran's part. Useful, though. 

Although, Moran clearly isn't taking too many chances - there's a burly blonde man standing at John's side, pistol clearly visible at his hip. He gives Sherlock a wide smile. 

"Lukas," Sherlock snarls at his contact, prompting laughter from somewhere behind him.

Moran appears, smiling as he steps in front of Sherlock. "Hello again, Sherlock."

Sherlock ignores him, taking stock of where they are: a large sitting room in what seems to be a holiday villa. French windows on one side open onto a stone balcony. He can smell freshwater, hear the faint roar from the open windows. They appear to have left the city far behind and that matches up with his estimate of the time - they've been unconscious for a few hours. 

"Come," Moran says pleasantly, beckoning for Sherlock to get up. "Why don't you have a proper look around?"

Sherlock gets hesitantly to his feet, glancing at John before turning towards Moran. Moran wanders over to the windows and out onto the balcony, gesturing for Sherlock to follow. Lukas follows every movement with his eyes, but does not budge from his spot at John's side.

Sherlock steps out onto the balcony, subtly twisting his hands to test the strength of his bindings. He walks up to the edge and looks out over the mountain landscape and the river a long way below them.

"Do you know where we are?" Moran asks with a smile, and then continues on regardless. "That, down there, is the river Reichenbach."

Sherlock says nothing. 

"You know, I was actually the one to think up the whole 'Rich Brook' thing. Me, not Moriarty. He was just the one to execute it. He couldn't resist - he was so obsessed with you."

"Jealous?"

Moran laughs. "It made him weak. Crazy."

Sherlock acknowledges that with a tilt of his head. "Whereas you're just out to get the job done."

"Exactly."

"Although I notice you've decided to adopt some of Moriarty's dramatics for this little scene. Otherwise you would've just killed the both of us outright."

"It just wasn't going to be satisfying enough," Moran allows. "You see, it's personal now."

"You're so right. It is personal," Sherlock says, turning to press his back to the balcony, his eyes fixed on John through the large, open windows. "You made the wrong move, Moran, and I'm afraid you're going to pay for it."

"Oh, really?" Moran asks with amusement. "How do you figure that?"

"The problem is, you're just not as clever as you wish you were." Sherlock locks eyes with Lukas. "Nicht wahr, Lukas?"

Moran spins round in surprise, only to find Lukas's pistol trained on him from across the room. Moran reacts instantly, whipping a gun from God knows where and taking Lukas out with a single shot. Sherlock uses the momentary distraction to slip his hands free from the restraints, and rushes at Moran.

*

John comes round slowly, his vision blurring for a moment before it clears, revealing the scene in front of him. A blonde man lies dead by his chair, a single neat hole through his forehead. The sounds of a scuffle draw John's attention to the balcony, where Sherlock is fighting a man who can only be Moran. Neither of them appear to have noticed that he is awake. 

He spots the gun in the dead man's outstretched hand instantly and gives a testing wiggle in his chair, relieved to find that only his hands are tied. He tests the bindings, only to have them slip off easily. Something's not quite right with this scene, but he's not going to waste time figuring out what.

A quick glance towards the balcony shows Sherlock and Moran grappling, both trying to find leverage in the enclosed space. He needs to use this advantage before he loses it. He rubs his wrists and tries not to move too quickly as he slides to the floor, eyes on the ongoing fight even as he crawls towards the dead man. He slips the gun from his hand, checks the safety, and turns back towards the balcony just in time to see Sherlock and Moran go toppling over the edge.

"No!"

John runs to the edge, but they are nowhere to be seen. "Sherlock!" he calls out hopelessly. "Sherlock!"

It's a fifty foot drop to the water, maybe more, and John is trying not to think about the rate of survival for a fall like that. He scans the water desperately but the white surge of the rapids churns everything up and he can't see anything. He swallows hard around the lump in his throat. Sherlock survived a seventy-foot fall from a building - albeit with some assistance - so John is not going to give up just yet. 

From his position on the balcony, he can see a precarious path at the side of the villa winding down to the river. It takes him ten minutes to find his way to it, but then he's rushing down the uneven steps carved into the side of the rock face. The river bank, when he reaches it, is rocky and there is no clear path along it, but that's not going to stop him. Adrenaline and desperation spur him on, leading him to half-scramble across the rocks, his feet slipping out from underneath him at several points. 

Just up ahead, the landscape levels out a bit and the water calms, turning from a rushing torrent to something more meandering. There is still no sign of life. John jogs along the side, eyes flicking from bank to bank, hoping to get a glimpse of something. 

There are large branches wedged against the rocks lining the banks in several places, and at one point even what looks like a whole tree. He's almost passed it when he spots a sliver of white among the branches and he's in the water without a second thought, gasping at the cold but forcing himself onwards. 

What he finds is a hand and he reaches out for it, tugging the rest of the body free of the branches before he realises that the owner is blonde rather than dark-haired. Moran. His neck is twisted at an awkward angle, eyes staring up at John lifelessly. John closes his eyes at the sight and pushes the body back into the water.

He wades back to the bank dejectedly, runs a cold hand through his hair. He can't give up - he has to find Sherlock. He forces himself onwards, although hope abandons him with every step. If Moran was killed on impact... No. He won't even think it. Not until he has the proof right in front of him.

A large boulder blocks his path and he hauls himself up onto it, resting his head against the stone for a moment to catch his breath. "Come on," he whispers to himself.

He raises his head, and that's when he catches sight of a dark shape washed up on the bank just below him. "Sherlock!"

He slides down the boulder and rushes to Sherlock, dropping to his knees and rolling him onto his back. Sherlock is paler than ever - tinged blue from the cold - and John is almost too afraid to press his fingers against Sherlock's neck. He lets out a breath of relief when he finds a very faint pulse, but the fact remains that Sherlock's not breathing, his chest eerily still. 

John checks Sherlock's airway and then tilts his head back, holding his nose and sealing his mouth over the top. He watches as Sherlock's chest expands and contracts with his breath and then pulls back, before repeating the process again. 

"Come on," he whispers desperately between breaths. 

Again, and again, until he's almost lightheaded. "Come on, you bastard."

He breathes air into Sherlock again, and suddenly Sherlock splutters and expels the water from his lungs, curling automatically onto his side with a moan. John can't help the relieved sob that slips past his lips. 

Sherlock's eyes flutter open and he takes John in with a confused frown. "What happened?"

"You almost drowned, you bastard, that's what happened," John chokes out.

Sherlock tries to sit up and John grabs him by the arms to help. "Take it easy." 

Sherlock is shivering, his clothes soaked through, and John rubs his hands up and down his arms briskly. 

"We need to get you warm and dry. I'm not having you dying of hypothermia after I just saved your arse." He gives Sherlock a crooked smile and Sherlock lets out a huff of laughter, his teeth chattering together.

"Come on," John says, wrapping an arm around Sherlock's waist and gently guiding him to his feet. Sherlock lolls against him weakly, and John puts all his effort into getting them the hell out of there.

*

Sherlock is loathe to move from his spot curled in the bottom of the shower, warm water running over his head. It's been twenty minutes and he's only just starting to get the heat back into his fingers and toes. 

It had taken them almost an hour to reach the nearest town and, by that point, Sherlock was shivering uncontrollably and struggling to walk. Somehow, John had managed to charm his way into the town's only hotel, despite a lack of money and identification, and had dumped Sherlock under the shower (clothes and all) as soon as they'd got to their room. 

He reappears now, regarding Sherlock with amusement. "You look like a drowned rat."

Sherlock gives him a sour look but doesn't have the energy to respond. 

"How are you feeling?" John asks, moving closer, concern colouring his voice.

"Warm," Sherlock slurs.

"That's good. Any numbness in your extremities?"

Sherlock shakes his head.

"Good. Want to get out of those wet clothes yet?"

Sherlock makes a non-commital noise, eyes fluttering closed. He's exhausted, just wants to sleep. He jolts awake when hands curl around his shoulders, giving him a shake, as John says his name. 

"Don't fall asleep, alright?" John says. He's smiling, but worry lingers in his eyes.

"You're getting wet," Sherlock points out and John laughs lowly.

"You didn't hit your head, did you?"

He pushes his fingers into Sherlock's hair and Sherlock hums contentedly, leaning into the touch. John stops, sighs, and rests his hands on Sherlock's shoulders, pressing his head to Sherlock's.

"I thought I'd lost you again."

Sherlock is too distracted to answer as he presses his nose into the hollow of John's throat, breathing in the familiar scent of him. 

"You need to stop falling off things, alright?"

"I promise," Sherlock says solemnly, tilting his head up to look John in the eye.

John smiles, but there's a seriousness in his expression, a tightness that Sherlock - in his addled state - cannot decipher. 

"Come on, let's get these clothes off."

He levers Sherlock into a standing position and leans him against the wall, deftly undoing his sodden shirt and slipping it off. Next come his trousers, then boxers, and Sherlock clears his throat awkwardly as his body responds automatically to John's closeness.

"Ignore that," he murmurs. 

John gives a huff that isn't quite a laugh and helps Sherlock lower himself to the floor once more. "Are you going to be alright left on your own?"

"Fine."

"Call me if you need anything," John says, brushing Sherlock's wet hair back from his face. "And don't fall asleep. Not just yet, alright?"

Sherlock just hums in reply, closing his eyes and tipping his head back into the spray. He doesn't realise John has moved until the bathroom door opens and shuts behind him.

*

John strips off his own wet clothes and wraps himself up in one of the complimentary bathrobes, sinking bonelessly onto the end of the bed. Moran is dead and they've both come out of it alive, but the thought does not make him as happy as it should. It's been an anticlimax, of sorts. And to add to that, he feels like his emotions have been put through the wringer, leaving him strung-out and exhausted. 

The sound of the shower continues next door, and John knows he should go and get Sherlock out and put him to bed, but he's feeling emotionally raw, vulnerable. He's finding it hard to put his doctor face on and deal with it. 

Finally, he forces himself to his feet and heads for the bathroom again. Sherlock is still slumped in the bottom of the shower, eyes half-closed, but at least his skin has lost its worrying blue tinge.

"Alright, time to get out," John says with forced cheer.

Sherlock starts at his voice and looks up at him with heavy-lidded eyes. John can't remember ever seeing him so helpless before. He turns off the shower, ignoring Sherlock's grunt of protest, and hauls him to his feet before bundling him up in a large, fluffy towel. 

"I'm not a child," Sherlock murmurs.

"I know," John says distractedly, grabbing another smaller towel and attacking Sherlock's hair. Once Sherlock's hair is dry, John towels down his arms, legs and torso. He can feel the weight of Sherlock's gaze on him, but Sherlock stays silent throughout John's ministrations. Finally, John throws the towel aside and coaxes him into the other bathrobe, securing it tightly around his waist.

"I'll put our clothes on the radiators and hopefully they'll be dry by morning."

Sherlock says nothing and lets John lead him out into the bedroom and guide him down onto the bed. "You should sleep now."

Sherlock crawls under the cover without protest, a sure sign that he's not quite himself. John tucks the blankets up around his neck, and just as he's about to step back, Sherlock catches hold of his wrist.

"Stay," he says sleepily.

He's got his eyes closed already, and John watches him for a moment, before extricating his wrist from Sherlock's grasp. Sherlock is already asleep, and his hand drops to the bed with a low thud. 

John drapes the clothes over the radiators and chairs as best he can and then, with a sigh, returns to the bed. Sherlock is snoring quietly and John smiles as he climbs in next to him. He's too tired to think about propriety and boundaries tonight, and once he's settled down, the low sounds of Sherlock's breathing lull him quickly to sleep.


	18. Chapter 18

Sherlock wakes from a dream filled with crushing, cold water to excessive, almost stifling warmth. The soft bathrobe wrapped around him has created a cocoon of heat, and he can feel the prickle of sweat on his back. It's not just his own body heat keeping him warm, though - in a moment of confused surprise, he finds John curled up next to him, his sleeping face only inches from Sherlock's.

With some difficulty he calls up his memories of last night, and flushes red with embarrassment when it all comes back to him in a perfect storyboard of shame - his own weakness, his inappropriate closeness, his body betraying him in the worst possible way. He wants to run, but exhaustion sits heavy on his bones, making even rolling onto his back hard work. 

He rubs a hand over his face and breathes through his nose for a while, cataloguing and processing, putting everything in its place. John is obviously not completely disgusted with him, or he wouldn't have stayed so close - but then, John is a consummate caregiver, unable to step back, even when it's probably for the best. That's always been his problem when it comes to Sherlock, and Sherlock has known it - and taken advantage of it - for a very long time. 

Sherlock sighs and shifts onto his other side, turning his back on John. There are so many occasions when John should have walked away and never looked back, but something keeps him tied to Sherlock - a nebulous, intangible _something_ that Sherlock has failed to categorise from the very beginning. It's loyalty and affection and honour and so much more, all part of John and what makes him giggle at crime scenes, and shake his head in amazement at a deduction, and bring his gun because it _could be dangerous_. It's what makes him greet the friend he thought was dead with a hug, instead of a punch. 

Sherlock can't help wondering if he's finally found the tipping point, though, the final straw that will send John away from him. The spectre of Sherlock's feelings hangs between them constantly and there seems to be no way past it. Yet there has to be a way past it, for the sake of their friendship.

Sherlock is resigned to the fact that his feelings will not be returned - has never expected that they would be. It's not that John doesn't care for him, doesn't love him - the last twelve hours are proof enough of that; it's that John, with his big heart, is capable of loving more than one person, in more than one way. When John was in a room with Marcus, his every look spoke of devotion, adoration, lust. When he is with Sherlock, it's something more muted, but no less significant. And Sherlock can live with that. His body and mind rebel against him, turning even the slightest flash of skin or the briefest touch into torture, but this is something he can control. He overcame addiction once and he can do it again. 

In the end, it will be John who decides and Sherlock will have to accept it. If John wants to leave because he is uncomfortable with Sherlock's feelings, there is nothing Sherlock can do to stop him. He wonders if it would be easier with John gone, and then remembers those three long years of pining and knows it wouldn't help at all. And if he had any say in the matter, he would rather have John as his friend than nothing. It will not be up to him, though, and so he can do nothing but wait, and hope. It won't be long, he's sure. If John's going to walk, it will be now. Moran is gone, this chapter of their life is closed, and it would be a clean break - or as clean as it was ever going to be. 

With resignation sitting in his chest like a stone, Sherlock curls up, awareness of John's proximity a reassuring tingle at the back of his neck. He should probably get up, reinforce the delicately-maintained space between them once more, but he cannot bring himself to move, and sleep soon pulls him under again. 

*

John starts awake from a jumbled dream where Marcus fell and Sherlock was shot, and sinks back against his pillow when reality reasserts itself. He lets out several controlled breaths, and then glances to his left. Sherlock is still fast asleep, face down, arm hanging over the edge of the bed. John smiles and slips carefully from the bed.

He goes to the toilet then washes his face, before pulling on his now-dry clothes. It's just after six in the morning, but he feels surprisingly well-rested. Which is just as well, because they've still got to figure out where they are, and find their way back to Zurich. He glances at Sherlock's sleeping form, then slips from the room.

The leaflets all over the reception area indicate that they are in the heart of the Reichenbach valley and John chokes out a laugh, because _of course_. He makes his way to the reception desk where the attractive young woman he vaguely remembers from last night looks to be half-asleep.

"Morning."

She startles and sits up straighter, giving him a flirtatious smile. "Morning. How's your friend?" Her voice is accented, but her English fluent.

"Much better, thank you. Would it be possible to make a call, so we can get our stuff sent here?"

"Of course, of course."

She lifts the phone from her desk and sets it down beside him with another smile.

"Thank you so much."

She beams and he turns his attention to the phone - there's really only one person to call. He dials a number he knows by heart and raises the receiver to his ear. They might not hear the end of this.

*

Sherlock wakes slowly and rolls over, stretching extravagantly before realising that there is anything amiss. He sits up quickly, eyes scanning the room - John's clothes are gone, the bathrobe he had been wearing draped across one of the chairs. He's probably just gone for a walk, but Sherlock's heart beats treacherously in his chest nonetheless. He scrambles to his feet unsteadily, one hand still on the bed, and it's at that point the door opens and John appears.

"Ah, you're awake," John says cheerfully, shutting the door behind him. "I brought breakfast." 

He waves an indiscriminate brown bag, before setting it down on the table and crossing the room. He stops just in front of Sherlock, eyes flicking over him.

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine."

"No dizziness? Headache? Spots in your vision?"

"No."

John smiles and turns away again. "Good. Come on, come and eat something."

"I'm not hungry," Sherlock protests weakly.

"Tough."

John sits at the little round table and takes a pastry from the bag before handing it over. Sherlock pulls out his own pastry and takes a bite, suddenly ravenous.

"This isn't a very healthy breakfast," Sherlock points out with a slight smile.

"I think we both need the sugar," John counters, taking a large mouthful from his pastry before setting it down and rising to fill the small kettle with water and flick it on. It feels for a surreal moment as if they're on holiday.

"You're very quiet this morning. Are you sure you're alright?" John asks, watching Sherlock over his shoulder.

"I'm fine," Sherlock says with a hint of playful exasperation. "Your mollycoddling is exhausting."

John laughs, and sets about making them both a cup of tea. It's all reassuringly normal, for them. 

"I phoned Mycroft," John announces once he's sat down again. "He's going to send a car over from Zurich."

Sherlock scowls, but can't bring himself to feel too angry towards his brother just now.

"What did you tell him?"

"I didn't tell him his little brother almost drowned, if that's what you're asking."

"Good. He'd be insufferable."

"He will be anyway."

Sherlock hums in agreement around a mouthful of pastry. 

"Now," John says after a pause, folding his arms across his chest. "Are we going to talk about the fact that you obviously had a plan that you decided not to let me in on?"

Sherlock considers feigning ignorance for all of five seconds, before answering. "It was safest that way."

John lets out a short huff of breath, a familiar sound of repressed anger. "I've heard that from you before."

"This was different."

John levels him with a stern look.

"I... apologise," Sherlock says. Explaining his logic seems pointless here. It will just make John angrier.

John shakes his head, but his expression softens minutely. "You are a complete and utter bastard, d'you know that?"

"It's been mentioned now and again."

John gives a half-smile, but then turns serious again. "Don't do that to me again. The almost dying thing."

"I can't guarantee it," Sherlock half-jokes.

"Well, you'd better work on it," John says, holding Sherlock's gaze.

"It helps when I have someone to watch my back," he admits.

John smiles softly. "Yes it does, you arse. Glad you're finally starting to realise that."

Sherlock smiles back and jolts when he feels a foot pressed to his under the table. John is watching him warmly and Sherlock presses into the contact with a silent sigh of relief.

"Come on, eat up," John urges. "The car should be here soon."

*

John lingers by the window, watching for the car but also admiring the view of the mountains, as Sherlock gets himself ready. With every layer of clothing, he becomes the haughty detective, the superior mind, the brilliant genius once more - and moves further and further away from that very human man who sagged against John in the shower and buried his face in John's neck. 

A black car pulls up by the kerb and an impeccably-dressed chauffeur climbs out and walks into the lobby. John steps away from the window and turns, only to find Sherlock watching him from across the room with a strange expression.

"Alright?" he asks.

Sherlock swallows, shifting from leg to leg, his hands jammed in his pockets - the very picture of awkwardness. He opens his mouth to speak - and the room phone rings, interrupting him. 

Sherlock storms over to the phone and answers it with a barely-restrained snarl. "Yes?"

A moment's pause and then he grits out a 'thank you' before hanging up. 

"The car's here," he informs John.

"Yes, I know," John says, stepping forward. He's not going to let the moment slip by. "You were saying?"

"Nothing. Let's go." 

Sherlock's already turning towards the door, but John's voice stops him in his tracks. "Sherlock."

Sherlock's head drops, just for a fraction of a second, and then he turns back, eyes focused somewhere over John's shoulder. 

"I understand completely," he starts with a somewhat formal tone, "If you'd prefer that I move out when we get back to London."

"What?" John gets out, blindsided by the comment.

"All things considered, I expect it would be the most desirous solution for you."

So they're having this conversation again, apparently. "Sherlock, why would I want you to move out?" John says. 

Sherlock finally meets his eyes, and the man from last night is back - vulnerable, open, scared. He blinks it away a second later, but not quickly enough. John takes a steadying breath. It's probably not the best time but he'd known the elephant in the room would have to be addressed at some point. It may as well be now.

"Sherlock," John says, licking his suddenly dry lips. "Look, I..." He falters. It's harder than he thought it would be, and it doesn't help that Sherlock isn't saying anything either.

He summons his courage and raises his head, meeting Sherlock's eyes. "I love you, alright. Not... Not in the same way as you... But yeah. You're my best friend, and I'd be lost without you. I'm sorry that I can't be _that_ for you-"

"No," Sherlock interrupts in a rough voice. "Don't. It doesn't..." 

Sherlock trails off uncharacteristically, looking so thoroughly miserable that John can't stop himself. He crosses the room and draws Sherlock into a clumsy hug. Sherlock makes a noise of surprise, tensing against John, but then slowly relaxes and his arms awkwardly encircle John's shoulders.

"I meant what I said before," John murmurs. "We're both grown ups. You don't need to move out."

Sherlock says nothing but his hands twitch against John's shoulders. 

"Anyway, if I left, you'd be dead within a week," John jokes and Sherlock's body jerks with an almost-silent laugh.

John pulls away to look at Sherlock, hands wrapped around his arms. "No more of this moving out nonsense, yeah?"

Sherlock nods, relief and something like affection flooding his expression. "Thank you," he whispers.

John gives his arms a squeeze, and then steps back. "Let's go home."

"Let's."

*

The train hurtles through the mountains, and then across France, headed for Paris and then, ultimately, home. John fell asleep within the first half an hour, and Sherlock watches him now, wondering what he's done to deserve this remarkable man as a friend. John's words from that morning echo in his mind, and for the first time in weeks, he feels something very close to content. 

It's not going to be easy, willing his heart into submission, but as he takes in the lines of John's face, he doesn't think it's going to be impossibly hard either. He thinks of the crushing agony of his first weeks back home and how sometimes just looking at John - and knowing he could not have him - was unbearable, and he realises with some surprise that it doesn't hurt like it used to anymore. It's an old wound now, healed over but still prone to the odd twinge now and again. He can live with that. 

The train shudders over a bumpy bit of ground and John blinks awake. "Where are we?"

"Central France."

John hums, eyes slipping closed again as he rests his head against the window. "It'll be good to be home again. Back to normal." He gives a little sigh. "Nice to have a bit of peace and quiet for a bit, no escaped assassins to worry about."

"Sounds incredibly boring," Sherlock comments, and John opens one eye to look at him, before grinning.

"Yeah, it does, doesn't it?" John laughs. "Wonder if there've been any good murders while we've been away."

"Funny you should say that..."

John gives him a look, and then laughs lowly. "Go on."

"I spotted it in the _International Herald Tribune_." He opens up the newspaper and places it down on the table, turning it to face John. "See?"

"Heiress missing in Cannes?"

"No, not that. That's obvious, she ran away with her cousin. This one." He points to the relevant article. 

"Someone found a dog outside a hospital," John says, eyes skimming over the page. "There's nothing about anyone getting murdered here."

John looks up and Sherlock smiles widely, anticipation and excitement bubbling in his chest. John seems to recognise the look and he sits back, tilting his head to one side.

"Come on then, tell me," he says with a fond smile.

Sherlock grins and launches into his deductions, the dots lining up in his head even as he speaks, and John watches him throughout with that old look of wonder and disbelief, mixed through with affection. Sherlock's never had this kind of connection with anyone, and he decides right there and then that if this is all he can have, just this, for the rest of his life, then it's enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hits post* *runs and hides* Just an epilogue to go, people.


	19. Epilogue

_October 2015_

Sherlock is spread out on the sofa, hands tucked under his chin, eyes closed. There's something off about this case, but he can't figure out what it is. It had almost been _too_ easy, finding Simpson and tying him to the crime. Too easy by far.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, startling him out of his thoughts. He slips it out and finds a message from Lestrade:

**_Simpson confessed. Case closed._ **

No, too easy, this is all wrong. Sherlock throws himself from the sofa in frustration, snarling as he paces the floor. There's something he's missed, there has to be. He needs to see the body again.

He fires a message off to Molly as he pulls on his coat, and then texts John as he runs down the stairs.

**_Need you at Bart's when your shift finishes. SH_ **

John's reply appears only a few seconds later, as Sherlock is climbing into a cab.

**_I can't. I've got plans._ **

Sherlock frowns at his phone as he types out a response.

**_What plans? SH_ **

A moment after he sends the text, he happens to catch sight of the date on his phone and he stills. _Oh._

**_Never mind. See you later. SH_ **

Marcus's birthday is one date he can't seem to bring himself to delete.

*

John slips his phone back into his pocket just in time for the next patient. Thirty long minutes later, his shift is over and he is more than glad to be getting out of there. He pauses by the reception desk to check over the rota and nods in greeting at Amy, the receptionist. 

"Lover boy called again," Amy tells him, mouth pursed with concern. 

John tenses and frowns. "Sorry about that."

"I very politely told him where to go," Amy says, her lips curling into a smile.

"Thanks."

"You really should tell the police about him."

"They've got more important things to worry about, trust me."

She shrugs and turns away as someone approaches the desk, and John shakes himself off. He doesn't have the energy to deal with this, today of all days. He waves goodbye to Amy and makes his way out into the street, throwing his arm up to hail a passing cab.

It's not a long journey from the clinic and John steps out of the taxi only ten minutes later. St. Stephen's looms in front of him and he pauses to look at it for a moment, before following the familiar path round to Marcus's grave.

He stops in front of the grey stone and crosses his hands behind his back, rocking on his heels. It's getting easier, day by day, but sometimes it hits him harder than usual. He can't help thinking of last year, and the party, and Marcus pressing close when he got tipsy - a suggestive murmur in his ear and a thigh pressed against his. His breath shudders from him and he presses his hand to his mouth, his eyes squeezed shut as he fights to regain control.

It takes a few minutes before he's recovered enough to open his eyes again. His gaze traces the letters of Marcus's name and he shifts his weight restlessly.

"I miss you," he whispers, and that is almost enough to set him off again, making him bite his lip. He curls his hands into fists, his nails pressing into the soft skin of his palms, and tips his head up, blinking rapidly.

He passes a few moments in silence, breathing deeply and evenly. It's as close as he can get to Marcus now, and it's a poor substitute, but it eases something in his chest. 

He hears footsteps behind him, but before he can turn, a figure appears at his side. The tension eases out of him as he recognises the dark material of Sherlock's coat out of the corner of his eye. He glances up at Sherlock and they exchange a look, before John turns back. Sherlock stays silent and bows his head, his hands shoved deep in his pockets.

They stay like that for a while, until the chill starts to creep into John's hands and feet, and he gives himself a little shake. "Come on, let's go."

"Dinner?" Sherlock suggests.

"Yeah. I'm starving."

John throws a parting look at the headstone, and then turns, falling into step with Sherlock. They reach the street and Sherlock turns to the right. "There's a very good Indian a few streets away."

"Sounds perfect."

They walk in companionable silence until they reach the restaurant, and duck inside out of the cold gratefully. They are shown to a table near the back and John sits, rubbing warmth back into his hands. Sherlock orders drinks and a fair mountain of food (he knows what John wants without asking, of course) and then sits back, that familiar piercing gaze falling on John.

"Something's wrong," Sherlock says after a moment's examination. 

John frowns, and wonders if he needs to give some sort of explanation about grief, but before he can, Sherlock speaks up again. "Something _else_ is wrong."

John sighs and leans back against his chair. He'd forgotten about his stalker.

"Robert?" Sherlock guesses, and John nods reluctantly. "He's been pestering you again."

"He rang up work," John says with a shrug, and Sherlock purses his lips in consternation. "It's fine. I just obviously didn't make it clear enough that I wasn't interested."

"Sleeping with him may have muddied the waters somewhat," Sherlock points out, but when John meets his eyes, there is no venom behind the words.

"Yes, I know," John sighs. A low point and one foolish mistake, and trust him to be the bloke who has a one-night stand with a psycho. 

"I'm sure we could have him investigated," Sherlock says, almost too casually, and John chokes out a laugh.

"No," he says, trying for a stern tone. "God, no. I don't think we need to get everyone involved... And by everyone I mean Lestrade and Mycroft."

Sherlock looks a little disappointed, but he doesn't argue, and John gives him a hesitant smile. 

As if on cue, John's phone rings and when he retrieves it from his pocket, he makes a noise of annoyance when he sees the name on the screen. He looks up just as Sherlock holds his hand out.

"Give it here."

"What are you going to do?" John asks, even as he hands his phone over.

Sherlock shushes him and answers the phone. "Hello. John's phone."

A short pause and Sherlock's eyes lock on John's, lit up with amusement. "I'm sorry, John can't come to the phone right now."

Another pause. "Me? I'm John's partner."

Sherlock injects a certain amount of emphasis to the word 'partner' and gives John a devilish grin. John rolls his eyes and listens as the conversation obviously comes to a very abrupt end. 

Sherlock hangs up with a flourish and hands John's phone back. "I don't think he'll be phoning you again."

"You lied to him," John remarks pointedly.

"I didn't. We're partners, just not in the sense he assumed."

"You're a menace," John says fondly. 

Sherlock grins back, looking far too pleased with himself. "Next time, you should let me come. I could've told you he was going to be far too... _clingy_." Sherlock makes a moue of distaste and John smiles.

"Don't worry, I won't be making the same mistake again." He swallows hard. "It was just... that one time I-"

"I know," Sherlock interrupts softly. John meets his eyes and feels the urge to apologise, ridiculous as it seems. Sherlock has been far too understanding about John's moment of madness, and it tugs at his heart guiltily. 

They're getting there, John thinks. They've had their odd moments of tension, but they seem, for the most part, to be back where they were before Sherlock jumped. Their lives are twined together once more in something very close to co-dependency, and it feels right. John smiles and looks up to find Sherlock watching him expectantly.

John shakes his head and tucks his phone back in his pocket, leaning back in his chair. "So, tell me about the case."

*

_March 2012_

John is shifting Marcus's books onto the mostly empty bookshelves, glad to see the space being used again. John hasn't had a huge amount of belongings since the Army, and the flat had seemed far too empty when Sherlock's things were packed away. Now, Marcus is filling the space in more ways than one, breathing life into the mausoleum that 221b has become. 

John bends to grab another handful of books, and when he rights himself, he manages to knock a picture frame from the mantelpiece. It falls to the floor with a crack and he crouches down, turning it over carefully and rising to his feet once more when he sees the glass is thankfully intact. He swipes a hand over the front, clearing the thin layer of dust. He'd almost forgotten about this picture.

Sherlock glares out from the black-and-white picture, the hat pulled low over his brow. He's practically radiating displeasure, but there's still something oddly vulnerable about him, caught on film like this. John grabs a cloth from the table and cleans the rest of the dust away, before turning to replace the picture. Mrs. Hudson had presented it to him not long after Sherlock's things had been taken away, and he hadn't been able to bring himself to reject it. Now, he's glad he kept it, and he ghosts his fingers over the picture once more. 

"You know, if I didn't know you better..." Marcus says quietly, making John jump as he appears behind him. "I'd think you were in love with him."

Marcus winds his arms around John's waist, his chin pressed to John's shoulder. John lets out a soft laugh, and presses his hands over Marcus's.

"I did love him," John says. "Not in a romantic way, but... I don't know how to explain it." 

Marcus says nothing, but his arms tighten around John almost imperceptibly. 

"I've had close friends before. Hell, in the Army, you practically live out of each other's pockets, you can't help but form some kind of bond... But with Sherlock..."

He doesn't have the words to explain it, even though it's something he's considered many times. 

"He was an arsehole. And I doubt it would have made a difference to him if I was there or not sometimes. But I think, deep down, our friendship meant as much to him as it did to me."

He can't help remembering _I don't have friends; I've just got one._

John takes in a deep breath and lets it out again, leaning back into Marcus just a little.

"I would've given my life to save his," he murmurs. He wonders, if he'd been up on the roof, if he would have been able to save Sherlock, to stop him from stepping over the edge. He closes his eyes and presses his head back against Marcus's.

"Well I for one am glad you didn't have to," Marcus whispers, breath ghosting over John's neck.

John smiles, his melancholy banished for a while, and turns to face Marcus. "I'd do the same for you," he says solemnly.

Marcus holds his gaze for a moment in silent acknowledgment, then leans in to press their lips together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thanks to my beta, lady_t_220, for sharing this journey with me and making this story a million times better. 
> 
> Thanks also to the people who have read and supported this story right from the start. Your kind comments and encouragement are very much appreciated.


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